


Lost and Found

by Suolainensilakka



Series: Snapshots [1]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Gore, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, brief reference to child death in the last chapter but thats just bc of vessel lore. man, existential crisis dot png, individual chapters will include content warnings if necessary, its very brief but im still putting up a warning ykno, some light worldbuilding in terms of vessel biology but its mostly just brief mentions, theres some location spoilers regarding the Abyss, this is literally all oc centric so no canon characters make an appearance unfortunately dhjhsdg, wouldnt be a chapter in kingdoms edge without at least one primal aspid ruining the day lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suolainensilakka/pseuds/Suolainensilakka
Summary: A ragtag group of traveling troublemakers forms, one by one.
Series: Snapshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833826
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> The Vessel wanders into the City alone.
> 
> They wander back out with a friend.

They find Slinky trapped near the top of a tower within the capital, scrabbling for freedom from their prison of glass.

* * *

A figure crosses through a fungal cavern, long limbs deftly weaving between towering mushrooms and thorny vines.

The Vessel’s steps are light, careful not to disturb the clusters of young fungi sprouting from the cavern’s nutrient-rich soil. Their cloak, the fabric a deep emerald green, stirs behind them as they traverse the sprawling pathways that make up the Fungal Wastes. The smell is something the Vessel has long grown used to, the waft of rotting decay and sulfuric mist doing little to bother them now - it’s an almost pleasant scent compared to the stagnant sewage of the Royal Waterways, anyhow.

The Vessel ducks underneath one of the pink, rubbery mushrooms that hang from the walls of the cavern, their horns briefly scraping the surface and pulling along a trail of softly glowing spores in their wake.

Their journey mostly consists of aimless wandering, now. Boredom is rarely an issue in the sprawling caverns of the kingdom of Hallownest, what with the infected beasts and husks roaming along its many pathways to hunt for unfortunate wanderers, but today seems especially uneventful as the Vessel explores their usual routes. Even the sporgs clinging to their secluded nooks in the walls seem particularly sluggish in flinging their explosive seeds towards trespassers, as blissfully quiet and effortless as it makes the Vessel’s travels across the Wastes be.

The Vessel’s steps take them down an entrance of arched metal, one they know leads to a pit of acid too strong and stinging for them to traverse. Still, their eyes fall back onto the signpost planted into the earth that marks the end of the Pilgrim’s Way, some old flame of curiosity drawing their attention to the familiar text again.

Something feels different.

The Vessel stops, and stares.

Someone’s raised the bridge back up.

The Vessel gazes upon the pit of green acid hissing beneath the metal structure, considers their options for a moment, and deems the newly-opened path worthy of investigation.

The walk across the bridge is quiet, save for the angry bubbling of the acid underneath. They only stop once they reach the end of the bridge, the decaying fungi atop solid ground soft beneath their feet.

A statue sits within a hollowed chamber, a hulking behemoth of a fortified gate sealed shut behind it. The Vessel approaches the statue to investigate, something within their chest giving an odd little jump at the possibility of exploring some new corner of the world that they haven’t been to yet.

The statue seems to depict one of the Five Great Knights of Hallownest - Hegemol, if the Vessel recalls. The fiercely curved horns of his helmet are impossible to mistake in their wicked gleam, even after centuries of ruin.

A small, circular crest is nestled into a slot in the statue’s arms, looking rather shinier than the washed-out and faded colors of the sculpted metal around it. Must have been why the mystery individual who raised the bridge came here - to open the gate, perhaps?

It’s a plausible idea, even if the gate seems to have fallen back shut. Either that, or it never opened in the first place and the traveler came here for nothing.

_ Or, perhaps they didn’t, _ the Vessel thinks as their eyes trail over a small cavern hidden up above, tucked almost precisely over the statue in what seemed to be a secret entrance beyond the gate.

The Vessel pauses, stands, and plans, and quietly decides to test their theory.

Hoisting themself up to the cavern’s entrance proves a much smaller challenge than anticipated, with only lightly tousled topsoil waiting to cushion their fall if they slip.

The Vessel crawls into a small crevice within the walls, stretching into a long tunnel filled with thorns and a few scattered clusters of fungi. Their horns almost brush the ceiling as they scoot across the dusty floor, careful to avoid snagging their cloak onto loose spines as they continue down the length of the tunnel, curiosity piqued.

Minutes pass as the Vessel crawls, and eventually reaches a drop down into a hallway below. From the looks of it, the exit seems to be positioned behind the gate - they were right, then, this  _ is _ an alternative entrance to whatever secret lies beyond its fortified borders.

The Vessel tenses their legs, adjusts their position, and jumps. They land with a quiet thud, their landing muffled as they settle into a crouch, cloak rustling behind them.

They look around themself, taking note of the glass windows and metal walls covered by particularly persistent mushrooms. It seems familiar, somehow, though the Vessel cannot yet tell why.

They straighten back up from their crouch, brush off flecks of dust from their cloak, and carry onwards.

A drop of water lands onto their horn, dissolving in a spray of mist from the impact.

Another drop splashes onto their face, this time.

More droplets fall, soaking into their cloak and rolling down their ink-black carapace as they step through the cavernous corridor, the mushrooms of the Fungal Wastes slowly transitioning into supply crates and structures of gleaming blue metal.

Ah, it seems they’ve reached the City once more.

The Vessel takes a moment to pause, casting their eyes wide around their surroundings to take in the capital’s ethereal glow.

As soaked as they might get in the pouring rain that gave the City of Tears its name, they find that they don’t particularly mind. It’s almost refreshing, in a way - certainly a welcome distraction from the stench of sweet rot in the Wastes.

Their biology proves itself to be another blessing, in any case, shielding the Vessel from most common ailments like colds and allergies far more efficiently than that of the mortal bugs of Hallownest.

Resting stop completed, shaking themself from their musings, the Vessel moves on.

Evading the sentry husks still patrolling the City borders is almost laughably easy now, centuries of experience in stealthy movement under their belt to help them get by. On the rare occasion that the Vessel gets spotted, the sentries all fall to their nail or their horns with practiced ease.

The familiar, towering spires of the City come into view, one by one. Water flows across the surface of the stone and metal that rises from the ground in awe-inspiring displays of art and engineering, carved and sculpted with immense care and detail.

The Vessel carefully sidesteps a corpse, faded and crumbling with age. A lone, plain nail sits planted through its shell, its owner likely long-gone as well.

What a shame, for such a marvel of a city to fall into complete and utter ruin, now populated only by infected husks and the scarce few survivors who remain in spite of the plague.

The Vessel’s wanderings don’t end at the border, anyway. As much as they’ve explored the looming spires and twisting roads of the City, it still holds countless mysteries beyond its sealed gates.

One of said mysteries is the Tower of Love, locked and seemingly inaccessible, standing tall above the far-eastern side of the capital. The Vessel has always avoided the place, determined that it would be far too much of a nuisance to get inside - that was when they were young, however. Now, fully-grown and experienced in breaking into all sorts of hidden pathways and guarded homes, the Vessel wonders if they could try again.

The trek across the City is decently short, the hulking remains of great husk sentries proving to be the biggest challenge to avoid along the way. Baiting them into raising their shields to allow the Vessel to quickly slip past them is still an effective strategy, though.

The Tower of Love stands tall among the luxurious apartments scattered around it, its walls a deep, royal purple that marks the architecture around the wealthier districts of the capital. On closer inspection, the walls seem to hold multitudes of small crevices and worn-down panels to provide a decent foothold, even the grandest of the City’s engineering marvels not untouched by the steady and inevitable march of time.

The Vessel plants their feet onto the ground, settles into an anticipating crouch, and leaps up against the wall.

The climb is surprisingly easy, the Vessel’s strengthened arms and steady grip proving to be a tremendous asset as they scale the tower, claws barely leaving a scrape onto the polished metal beneath.

Minutes pass by in relative silence, the Vessel’s climb accompanied only by the sound of rain beating against their carapace and their own claws clicking onto the tower’s walls. Once they reach a point where it seems the tower stretches no further, the Vessel casts a glance downwards and finds themself suspended far above any solid ground. They need to be careful not to fall here - as sturdy as their shell may be, it is not indestructible, and they’d rather not spend any precious Soul healing their carapace from the results of an unfortunate slip.

The Vessel paws at the stone and metal beneath them, looking for a loose tile or a panel skewed aside to allow them entry into the tower. Finding none, they snuff out their disappointment as they proceed to drop down a touch, investigating the windows next.

There. A tiny, near-invisible gap in the frame, just wide enough for the Vessel to slip their claws inside and lift the window further to let them in. They make sure to make as little noise as possible, reminding themself of the possibility of unfriendly company waiting inside.

The Vessel drops into the apartment with a hush, only the smallest of dust clouds stirring around them. Slowly, they straighten up from their crouch, eyes roaming across the apartment as they take in the regal purple hues of the padded walls and floor.

A writing desk sits in the middle of the room, an ornate chair left nearby almost as if its owner went out in a rush. A long scroll of weaversilk parchment lays atop the desk, bearing hastily scribbled but intricate notes the Vessel cannot decipher from a glance. Several old quills stand stabbed into the parchment, the reason for their numbers unknown.

The ink is still wet.

The Vessel carefully steps aside, tearing their eyes from the desk to inspect the room further, now a touch more wary for signs of potentially hostile life.

A lone glass jar sits across the room, drawing the Vessel’s attention for a moment. It’s oddly large - more importantly, something within it moves, rather noisily so.

Inside, is a… caterpillar, many-limbed and with fur of a pale green and lavender, wearing a white mask and a light brown hat. The bug sits curled into what looks like the most uncomfortable position a bug could possibly hold in such a small space, their limbs almost twisting into knots as they roll in place with a low grumble.

It takes the caterpillar a moment to notice the Vessel’s presence. When they do, however, their hat almost goes flying right off their head when they shoot up from their haphazard tangle of limbs with a shout of surprise.

“Hey!” the caterpillar exclaims, furiously waving towards the Vessel to get their attention. “Hey, you! Over here!”

The thought of letting the caterpillar out crosses the Vessel’s mind, something inside nagging at them to help the clearly trapped bug.

Not yet, though. First, the Vessel must dry off, and then ensure there are no hidden beasts lurking underneath padded floorboards or waiting inside cracks within the ceiling.

The Vessel stops, tenses, and violently shakes, sending a spray of water flying wide from their soaked cloak and carapace.

Briefly, they hope that whoever calls the tower home - if there’s anyone who even lives there for long, anymore - won’t mind the extra wetness. They’re fairly certain it won’t damage the house, anyway, the regal carpets and soft padding of the walls clearly indicating the apartment’s wealth through material alone.

Sufficiently dry, the Vessel pauses to look around, taking note of the distinct lack of dust coating the well-polished furniture. There’s definitely someone who occupies the apartment, even if their surroundings seem quiet now. Whoever it is, they’re most likely outside, and the tower is thankfully empty. For now.

The Vessel walks around the room, craning their neck this way and that, deeming another check on their surroundings a necessary precaution. The caterpillar, still trapped and seemingly growing impatient, gives another few frantic knocks against the glass as the Vessel passes by them.

“Hey! Don’t just—” the caterpillar shouts, voice tinged with a gradually creeping panic as they flip over to face them. “Don’t ignore me! Oi, Prongs!”

The Vessel has known many names throughout their long life within the kingdom. Phantom, Shadow, Child, Thing, Nuisance, Trespasser, Little Thief, Hey You, and many a furiously shouted expletive whenever they had felt brave enough to steal supplies directly from greedy high-class nobles in the City.

‘Prongs’ was new.

They stop, wait for a moment, then slowly settle into a crouch besides the jar. Their cloak rustles behind them, and they tilt their head to the side.

The caterpillar huffs, fogging the glass, and curls into a loose pile within their prison.

“Oh, good, thought I was gonna scream my throat raw before anyone came,” they mutter sourly. Then, just as suddenly, they press a pair of hands against the glass with an echoing smack, an eager glint shining in their eyes. “That said, ya wouldn’t mind letting me out o’ here? Getting caught in the first place wasn’t exactly my proudest moment, but I gotta admit I was pretty stumped on how to wiggle my way to freedom. Darn glass is too sturdy for me to break through on my own, damn this thin shell o’ mine.”

The Vessel considers the caterpillar for a moment, eyes trailing over their many pairs of legs and near-complete lack of any equipment besides their hat. They don’t seem to carry any weapons that the Vessel can see, and their size would prove to be much too small to even dent their carapace if worse came to worst. Overall, not a significant threat if they proved hostile.

“Hey, can you hear me? Hello?” they say with a knock against the glass, growing impatient with the Vessel’s prolonged silence. Not a significant  _ physical _ threat, yes, but their personality seemed another beast entirely. “What, do I gotta say ‘pretty please’ too, huh? Is that it? He—”

The Vessel raises a hand, balls it into a tight fist, and drives it into the side of the jar.

The caterpillar’s cut-off shriek almost gets drowned underneath the clattering shower of glass as the jar shatters, shards flying out in a spray of glittering dust and spilling onto the floor.

The now-freed bug crumples into a heap with a muffled grunt, straightens back out while carefully avoiding the larger shrapnel, and brushes a few loose flecks of glass from their fur once they untangle the rest of their limbs.

“Ah, thanks,” they absently chirp to the Vessel as they adjust their hat, voice somewhat shaky from the sudden shock but otherwise cheerful. “Sorry, thought ya spaced out on me there!”

The Vessel nods in acknowledgement, and moves to get up from their kneel.

A small palm suddenly planted onto their leg forces them to stop, though, and they turn their gaze back down to the caterpillar, now leaning onto their carapace with an odd look in their eye.

“Wait, hold on a sec. I wanted to ask ya something.”

The Vessel pauses, and inclines their head.

The caterpillar scratches their chin for a moment, gathering their thoughts. “I, uh… Thanks, really. Ya didn’t  _ have _ to get me out of there, but ya did.” They bark out a small laugh, waving a hand. “Not that I ain’t happy you did, don’t get me wrong! I just, you know… wasn’t all that optimistic. Still, feels good to be proven wrong sometimes, eh?”

The Vessel says nothing. Where is the bug going with this?

“... Say, what if ya stuck around a bit longer? I could always use an extra pair of hands to help me out, and you seem plenty proficient with fighting your way out of trouble.” They caterpillar pauses, eyeing the nail sheathed on the Vessel’s back. “Mighty fine weapon you’ve got there, too. Not too familiar with the smithing business myself, but I can tell that’s a deadly blade if I’ve ever seen one.”

The Vessel mulls over the caterpillar’s words for a moment. Yes, they consider themself to be rather adept at fighting, even if their favored weapon wasn’t a separate tool. But do they want to travel with another? Do they want to introduce a new, unpredictable variable into their previously solitary wandering?

Something nags at the back of their mind.

No matter. What the Vessel  _ wants _ is irrelevant. Has always been irrelevant. The caterpillar seems eager to partner up, and the Vessel calculates that forming a team of two would raise both of their chances of survival more than continuing on their separate ways.

Slowly, the Vessel nods, and the caterpillar visibly lights up.

“Great, I was hoping you’d agree,” they say with an audible grin and clap their hand against the Vessel’s leg.

The latter ignores the gesture, electing to watch their new companion in curious silence.

The caterpillar seems to stop for a moment, squints off towards the distance, then suddenly jerks as if struck.

“Oh,” they hum, a laugh bubbling from their throat. “Damn, I completely forgot— can’t be travelin’ with other folks without ever giving them a name to call you by, hah!”

Somehow, the topic of names had never crossed the Vessel’s mind. Still, it is something useful to go over, especially if the two were to team up for longer than a singular trip.

“The name’s Slinky,” the caterpillar chirps, tipping their hat with a casual wink. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a name of your own, eh? You seem like a rather stoic fella, but I thought I’d ask.”

Silence rings in response, and Slinky seems to deflate in confusion.

“No? Seriously?”

The Vessel remains quiet, but slowly shakes their head.

“Huh,” Slinky says, audibly baffled as they scratch behind their mask. “Well, I can’t just keep hollering at you every time I need yer attention, can I—” The caterpillar stops, squints again, and casts a questioning glance up to the Vessel. “Ya wouldn’t mind if I called you Prongs, would ya? ‘S pretty fitting, too, if anything.”

‘Prongs.’ The Vessel isn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

And yet, some small part of them stirs, hungry for a moniker other than their birth-inherited title.

The urge to stifle the thought into quiet oblivion rears its head again, as instinctual as their skill with wielding a nail.

_ Do not want, _ the Vessel tells themself, like they’ve done for centuries ever since they learned of the purpose behind their creation. They cannot  _ afford _ to want things. They should not care about names, or titles, or travel partners and their befuddling quirks.

But, perhaps, they can allow themself this one small gift, freely offered by the bug that stands before them, still awaiting their answer.

_ Traitor, impure, _ howls the voice within their soul as they will their head to move into a deliberate nod. They almost regret their decision then, but the way Slinky’s face nearly splits into a gleeful grin through their mask makes the Vessel pause.

“Well, nice to properly meet ya, Prongs,” Slinky says with a pleasant laugh. They seem to laugh a lot, the Vessel thinks.

The caterpillar casts another glance around the room, then shudders a little. “We probably oughta get out of here,” they mutter up to the Vessel, who responds with a quiet nod. Yes, they cannot be certain when the apartment’s owner is going to return, and leaving now would ensure they’d get to avoid a potentially rough confrontation with whoever trapped Slinky into their home.

The Vessel taps Slinky’s shoulder, watching as the caterpillar springs to attention and looks at them, before they point towards the still-open window they used to get into the house.

“Oh, good plan,” says Slinky with an audible grin, immediately bolting into a sprint across the room to hoist themself up and over the frame. “C’mon,” they call out with a wave of a hand, “I’d really rather not spend any more time in there than I absolutely gotta!”

With that, the caterpillar disappears beyond the rain-soaked glass with an elated whoop of joy.

Prongs follows close behind, ducking beneath the window as they slide outside into the pouring rain.


	2. The Scholar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team of two soon becomes three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright hello I'm back with a new chapter and this one sure is A Chapter, huh
> 
> so. content warnings are for some pretty meaty and potentially upsetting descriptions of body horror and also some gore, but they're not the Main main focus of this chapter so ykno
> 
> (the bodyhorror bits start after the phrase 'Something steps into the room.' and last for roughly around three paragraphs, take care)

They find Bow starving and weak, terrified out of their mind and on the verge of collapse, stuck amidst shambling husks within a long-forgotten archive.

* * *

Two shadowed figures roam across walls of blue metal and carved stone, carefully avoiding collapsed bits of the ceiling above that allow the City’s trademark rain to pour inside the silent hallways.

Someone bumps into a toppled support pillar, swearing sharply as they rub at the sore spot in their shoulder.

“Alright, gotta be more careful about those,” the bug mutters quietly, blinking as their eyes gradually adjust to the dim lighting in the building. The lumafly lamps up above seem useless now, the glass thoroughly shattered and void of the small, shining insects that used to light the winding corridors underneath.

Slinky huffs under their breath, and briefly casts a glance to their companion. The tall Vessel behind them stares back, head tilted to the side in an unspoken question.

“Ya didn’t bring your lantern with you, did ya?” Slinky asks them, already resigned to the answer. Prongs slowly shakes their head, the expression on their masked face unchanging but still seeming almost apologetic.

“Figures,” Slinky sighs with a grimace. “That’s fine, I can still see mostly alright, I just thought I’d ask.”

They don’t hear a reply, though the lack of a response brings them no anxiety. In all the time the caterpillar has travelled with their patient guardian, they’ve learned at least two things - one, their friend does not talk, seemingly ever. (Slinky isn’t sure if they _can._ ) Two, they take their unspoken role as Slinky’s bodyguard very, _very_ seriously. Not that they mind, of course, it’s rather soothing to know that whatever dangers or enemies may cross their path will have to answer to the Vessel’s nail before Slinky themself comes to any harm.

The caterpillar promptly steps into a stagnant puddle of rainwater, barely refraining from shrieking out loud at the sudden, cold wetness pressing against their carapace.

“Ugh,” they say, stepping further away from the water and shaking droplets off their leg.

Their eyes trail upwards, squinting at the water damage eating away at the hallway’s crumbling structure. Old text tablets and writing lines the walls, full of near-unintelligible scrawling that barely resembles any conventional Hallowscript at a glance. Parts of the text are gone entirely, eroded away from time and water working together.

Slinky frowns as they trace the intact writing with their gaze - there are snippets of words they recognize, or at least bits of it that aren’t carved in some obscure code.

_Mind. Union. Soul. Forbade… freedom. Important work. Teacher… no understanding. Sanctum of fools. The path we carve… our own._

Without any context or other clues to aid them, the text still remains a complete mystery. Something about it still fills Slinky with a building sort of dread, a churning unease that coils and writhes deep within their soul.

They look away from the tablets, suddenly a lot more keen on moving forward and away.

Prongs seems to have a very similar idea, and Slinky turns to look as they carefully shove a partially open door aside.

"What have ya got there?” Slinky murmurs to their friend, watching as the Vessel steps into the room beyond with nothing more than a near-silent shifting of cloth. Slinky quietly pads after them, some small part of them suddenly tensing in fear at the thought of getting separated from their companion.

The caterpillar blinks once, then twice, the room before them much brighter in color and light than the corridor they came from - the pale blue glow of the City, pouring in from a dusty window, floods the walls and cluttered shelves inside with a ghastly shine, water dripping from the ceiling in a steady flow.

Rows of acid vials line the shelves, shimmering a ghostly green from afar. The caterpillar perks up at the sight - well, that’s promising. There could be _something_ worth looting held in those vials, especially considering how well-hidden the whole building had been in the first place. No one places this much effort into concealing this much information within fortified walls unless there was some ancient treasure or secret someone wanted out of sight and out of mind.

The walls here hold even more text, though some are accompanied by diagrams and charts of various kinds - symbols and glyphs litter the edges, ones that the caterpillar feels are vaguely familiar yet incomprehensible nonetheless. They don’t pay much mind to the charts, anyhow, as their attention is drawn to the shelves.

Slinky picks up a tube of acid, squinting at the text skittering beneath the glass. Whatever is written into the acid is certainly not the same jumbled shorthand as the tubes they’ve seen inside the Teacher’s Archives when they visited once - this text is written in another code entirely, unintelligible from within its vial.

The caterpillar looks up from the tube, setting it back onto its shelf. Prongs seems engrossed in investigating another shelf, this one filled with weaversilk scrolls of various lengths and sizes.

The ink written into the silk is almost entirely washed off, the water damage within the building seeming to have reached the scrolls before they could be preserved properly. Slinky clicks their tongue under their breath. Whoever had maintained the building - another Archive, by the looks of it - clearly had missed the memo on storing silk scrolls within a building located in a city of eternal rain. Either that, or they’d fallen prey to their ego, believing its structure to be sturdy enough to outlast any leaking.

“Prongs?” Slinky calls out to the Vessel, watching their head jerk towards them. “Whaddya think the folks here were up to? Awfully secretive fellas they were, if anything.”

Prongs shrugs after a small pause, eyes wandering around the room once more.

Slinky hums quietly, setting off to walk around and look for anything worth noting. They hear Prongs behind them, following close by.

Minutes pass in silence as the pair explores. Slinky briefly pauses to glance at a closed door, tests the handle, and frowns in disappointment when the door doesn’t budge. Figures that it’d be locked.

“You’d think there was _something_ in here worth grabbing,” Slinky says with a low murmur. “There ain’t any records of this place anywhere - or at least, if there _were,_ they’re all gone or destroyed. That oughta mean they were hiding somethin’ valuable, whatever it was.”

Prongs doesn’t reply, but Slinky still hears them shuffle on their feet as they walk.

Something within Slinky’s mind stirs, tenses as if waiting.

It’s quiet.

It’s far too quiet.

Slinky swallows, and carefully steps through an open door - looking so awfully decrepit that it almost seems like it was violently ripped off its hinges - to peek inside.

This room looks like another section dedicated exclusively to storing data, filled with towering shelves containing even more scrolls and acid vials than the previous few rooms combined.

The scrolls here look mostly intact, only a few splotches of moisture tarnishing their surface - perhaps they still hold something of value inside.

“Jackpot,” Slinky whispers with a widening grin. “C’mon, let’s have a look—”

Slinky’s muttering dies with a stifled hiss, interrupted by Prongs yanking them behind a collapsed bookshelf and ducking away from view. 

Slinky narrows their eyes, fur ruffled into uneven clumps. “Prongs, what are you—”

The Vessel holds up a claw, and the caterpillar falls quiet. Slowly, as slowly as they dare, Prongs points behind their makeshift hideaway, and Slinky cranes their neck to look.

The smell hits them first, a nauseating mixture of decaying flesh and sharply stinging ozone wafting into the room from a lone doorway to the pair’s right. Slinky gags, muffling the sound into their hand.

“Oh, Wyrm, what _is_ that?” they hiss under their breath, eyes nearly watering from the powerful stench drilling into their nose. Prongs remains still, certainly not helping soothe the caterpillar’s growing nervousness.

The footsteps come next.

Heavy, lumbering footsteps that scrape against the floor in a way that makes the caterpillar’s shell itch something fierce.

Slinky’s not sure if they’ve ever held their breath as silently as they do now.

Something steps into the room.

At first glance, it’s almost impossible to tell what the thing even _is_ \- it stumbles and crawls like some half-dead husk, but it looks like someone decided to stitch together a mismatched array of limbs and organs and then melted them in acid. Globs of its own oozing skin fall from its shell in uneven clumps, leaving slimy trails shimmering with an oilslick shine that dances on too many legs, too many eyes, too many teeth.

The smell is even worse up close. The creature’s own decaying rot and lightning-charged air mixes with the almost saccharine odour of the Infection, billowing around the beast in scattered clouds.

Pustules of sickly glowing orange fight for territory with the creature’s own mismatched skin and shell, oozing and bubbling as if its very flesh couldn’t quite agree on which way it should turn, ripping itself apart and stitching back together like the pools of boiling acid within the Wastes.

It’s nauseating to watch.

The creature wheezes out a fragmented hiss, shambling past the pair’s hideout in the most tense two minutes of Slinky’s entire life.

The caterpillar’s heart hammers so high up their throat they’re not entirely sure they could speak even if they wanted to. Slowly, they tap a hand against the Vessel’s side, watching the latter’s head turn towards them.

 _We should go,_ Slinky signs to their companion, hands barely holding steady in their haste. The Vessel nods then, before they turn back around to peek behind their shelter.

A few minutes go by before Prongs gives an approving nod, rising up from their crouch as silently as they can. Slinky follows close behind, thanking the gods for blessing them with thick fur to cushion their movement.

The pair doesn’t speak as they slowly advance through the room, every footstep and rustle of cloth feeling like a looming death sentence waiting to snap them both into an inescapable iron trap.

Slinky’s foot knocks into a shattered vial on the floor. They almost curse out loud, but the sound dies in their throat at the noise that follows.

There’s a loud scraping of a claw against the hard floor, and a seething hiss tears through the air like the crack of a whip.

Slinky freezes into place, and their heart stutters to a brief stop.

_It’s still here._

The creature gives a horrible, gurgling screech, and charges.

Slinky, on account of some miracle of divine luck, manages to dive out of the way before the thing’s claws smash into the spot they had occupied mere seconds ago. Prongs, to the caterpillar’s sudden horror, is not as lucky.

The Vessel reacts just a smidge too late, caught halfway through an evasive roll as the monster slams into their torso with an enraged roar.

 _“Prongs!”_ Slinky screams out as their friend gets knocked across the room, grappling with the creature with desperate fervor that sends old books and acid tubes crashing onto the floor all around them.

The Vessel’s nail had been flung from their back with the impact, and they claw at the floor to try and locate their weapon as the monster howls and snaps its segmented jaws.

Slinky suddenly jerks from their horrified trance, scrambling towards the glinting sword that lays a few paces away. The caterpillar kicks at it as soon as they get close, sending the nail sliding towards their friend’s outstretched arm as they fight.

“Here, catch!” Slinky shouts. Prongs grabs the handle with a flash of their claws, then kicks the point of their foot into the creature’s torso.

The monster screams out another broken shriek as it crashes against the wall, putrid orange spraying from the wound Prongs had stabbed into its flesh. It scrambles back onto its feet just as the Vessel gets up as well, flashes of pale Soul crackling around its shell as it snarls.

This time, Prongs knows to dive away in time as the creature leaps with another ear-shattering roar.

Its scream dies with a gurgling wail, its torso cleaved cleanly in half by the Vessel’s held-up blade.

There’s a loud crash, another sickening crunch, then silence. Globs of orange Infection drip from the Vessel’s nail, staining the floor and their cloak with sweet-smelling bile.

Slinky waits for another few seconds before they dare to move.

“You okay?” they whisper to their friend, watching as the Vessel shakes off excess orange from their weapon. Then, they turn towards the caterpillar and give a single, confident nod.

“Alright, good,” Slinky breathes out in relief. That was close. Way too close.

“Are ya _sure_ you’re okay?” Slinky asks again as they pad across the room, checking their surroundings once more. Prongs forms a thumbs-up, then follows in Slinky’s footsteps.

Both travelers are much more wary now, eyes and ears trained for any suspicious sound or flash of movement. The scrolls and acid vials lay long-forgotten now - finding a safe exit is their main priority.

No more than two minutes after the pair sets off to explore, Slinky bumps against the Vessel’s back when they suddenly come to a stop before another open room. It doesn’t take the caterpillar long to figure out why - a low, dangerous rumble reverberates from swaying half-corpses stood further into the corridor, orange eyes glinting in the low light of the flooded Archive.

Slinky tenses, coiled in wait for an opportunity to flee. They’re a thief, yes, and a skilled one at that, but they’re no fighter - at least, not to this scale.

Before them, Prongs subtly taps a claw against their thigh, a silent reassurance. Slinky doesn’t risk replying out loud, but a small part of them relaxes nonetheless, knowing that their guardian has more than enough power to deal with even a horde this large.

The Vessel tightens the grip on their nail, drawing the blade beside them with deliberate slowness. They know how the monsters fight, now. They know their speed, their strength, their strategies.

This time, they will not be caught unawares.

The next few minutes pass by in a blur, as Prongs practically becomes a whirlwind of dangerously glinting blades that sends spouts of orange spraying all around them. The two fall into a rhythm, Slinky calling out warnings and weak spots from a safe distance and Prongs sinking their nail into the flood of screaming husks closing in.

The quiet rain of the City drumming against the ceiling is soon completely drowned out by the battle, nail cracking against carapace and slicing through the mass of flailing limbs with lethal precision.

By the time Prongs pulls out their nail from the carcass of the sixth creature that fell to their blade, the horde’s numbers have thinned into nearly nothingness. Two or three beasts remain, circling around the Vessel as they snarl and snap their jaws.

The air around Prongs hums dangerously, sparks of white clustering around their nail-free hand. Slinky quietly presses themself further behind their current shelter, electing to stay out of their friend’s way as the caterpillar realizes the Vessel’s plan.

Prongs raises their hand, the electric hum around them erupts into a roar, and a blinding flash of white engulfs the room.

Three scorched corpses lay on the ground, their stench of decay now almost fully drowned out by the crackle of Soul-charged air. White lightning dances around the Vessel’s outstretched palm, then fades into nothingness as they slowly lower their hand.

Prongs turns, gaze falling upon Slinky’s hideout, and they give the caterpillar a final thumbs-up.

“Wyrm, that was close,” Slinky breathes out as they slowly crawl out into the open and stretch their limbs. They’re still tense, but considerably less so than before - it’s very likely that there are no more monsters that lurk anywhere nearby. If there were, they would have been alerted to the loud ruckus long ago.

Prongs gives a slow nod, seemingly in agreement. Shimmering orange drips from their nail, some stray splatters lodging themselves upon the carapace on the Vessel’s legs and abdomen. Slinky sees no bleeding wounds, thank the Wyrm, but more than a few scratches and concave dents line the Vessel’s inky armor. The caterpillar grimaces underneath their mask, silently reminding themself to check over their friend for any other injuries after they find safe passage out of the ruined building.

Their journey seems to have come to a brief pause, however, as the Vessel’s gaze is drawn elsewhere around the wide room littered with burnt bodies. They flick off more gleaming blood from their blade, their grip on the handle remaining firm and secure.

A door remains, cracked open just enough for someone to slip through and into the space beyond if needed.

Inside, someone coughs.

Prongs freezes into a halt, and Slinky stops as well. Whoever made the noise doesn’t sound like one of the infected beasts lurking within the Archive - there’s no guttural snarling, no half-choked wheeze of fluid-filled lungs, no buzzing of charged Soul indicating an incoming spell of destructive energy. Still, it’s better to be cautious.

There’s a sudden crash from within the room, prompting Slinky to bite back a sharp yelp of surprise as Prongs drops into a defensive stance before them.

A string of hastily muffled swears follows the noise, and there’s the sound of frantic shuffling and softly clinking shards of glass scraping across the floor.

Slinky casts a glance towards the Vessel, a silent question in their eyes.

Prongs readies their blade, and nods for the caterpillar to proceed.

Slinky takes a few careful steps forward, and peeks through the door.

Inside is…

Well. Whatever they were expecting to find in the room, it wasn’t _this._

A lone bug stands in the center of the room, leaning onto a desk with trembling limbs and clutching a particularly sizable shard of glass within their hand. More shards lay scattered around their feet - that must’ve been the source of the crash from before. There’s small pools of acid still sizzling on the floor, their contents lost for eternity.

The bug’s fur - colored a pale off-white, speckled with patches of a softer beige - clings to their carapace, sticky from the moisture brought by the flooding within the Archive. Long white tendrils of their fur cover their back in loose curls, almost forming a natural cloak. Two black antennae stand pressed flat against the bug’s head, twin tufts of rusty red fluff flanking a face framed by round glasses.

The bug freezes when they see the pair approach, then their trembling starts anew.

“Who’s there?” they hiss, stumbling backwards in clear terror. They almost trip on a knocked-over canister on the way, gasping sharply as they fumble with the shard, clutching it like a lifeline. “Don’t come any closer!”

Slinky blinks, then takes a few hesitant steps forward. They keep their hands out, ensuring that the bug sees they’re free of weapons.

“Hey there,” Slinky begins, keeping their voice as steady as they can as they approach. The bug’s eyes instantly snap onto their face, frightened and wary.

“Who— who are you?” the bug stammers, gripping the shard of glass with enough force to cause their arm to tremble. Either that, or their strength is already dwindling from the effort of standing up.

“Easy, friend,” Slinky reassures them as they keep holding out their hands in a placating gesture. Prongs waits nearby, brushing off drops of Infection from their shoulder.

“I’m Slinky, and the big and intimidating fella behind us is Prongs,” Slinky continues, then makes their best attempt at a reassuring smile. Well, the bug can’t see it through their mask, but it’s the thought that counts.

The bug stares.

Prongs is _still_ wiping splatters of orange from their carapace.

Slinky’s smile falls into a small grimace. “No, seriously, don’t mind my friend over there. We, ah, got into a bit of a scuffle on our way through here. Place is crawlin’ with monsters, you know how it is.”

The bug swallows, still looking like they’re on the verge of passing out.

“No, I must stress that I really don’t,” they warble weakly. Slinky resists the urge to slap their own forehead.

“Right, nevermind,” they hiss under their breath.

A pause follows.

“How—” the bug starts, then cringes before sputtering out a wheezing cough. “How long was I…”

They trail off after a moment, eyes roaming over the room with a generous amount of reverent fear. Well, one of them, anyway - the entire left half of the bug’s face is coated with black, almost as if something singed the fur right off their shell. Their left eye shines a pale, shimmering white, blinded.

Slinky’s face contorts into a thoughtful frown. “Look, bud, I dunno. We barely know what the hell this place even _is,_ let alone how long you’ve been stuck down here.”

The bug gives a solemn nod in response, idly tugging on the red bowtie wrapped around their neck. “I… I see,” they say, voice wavering. Their grip on the glass shards slackens some, but they don’t let go of their makeshift weapon yet.

Prongs approaches the bug slowly, carefully, having sheathed their nail behind their back some time ago. They watch the bug’s gaze flick towards them, nervous. The Vessel tilts their head, a silent question hanging in the air.

“I think Prongs here is asking if ya have a name,” Slinky translates with a small smile.

Silence. Then:

“Bow.” The bug inhales, antennae flicking. “My name is Bow.”

“Awesome,” Slinky says, their smile widening into a grin. “Now, I dunno about you, but I’d really rather find a way to get out of here as soon as possible. This place gives me the creeps, personally.” A pause. “I mean, no offense, if you actually live here.” The caterpillar cringes a little.

“None taken,” replies Bow, face pulled into a grimace of their own.

Prongs taps a leg against the floor, reminding the two to move.

“Right, we should go,” Slinky says with a nod, and goes to turn and leave the room. They stop halfway through the motion, eyes falling back upon the bug behind them. “D’you, uh… need any help?”

Bow stands still for a moment, the glass shard laying forgotten atop the desk as they lean on it for support. They draw in a deep breath, something whistling faintly in their lungs.

“No, I’ll— I’ll be alright, thank you.” They take a careful step forward.

Their face shifts from mild confusion to sudden panic almost immediately as their leg gives out beneath them. Prongs reacts just as fast, however, and gently catches the bug when they land into the Vessel’s arms with a startled wheeze.

“S-sorry,” Bow hisses out, gripping Prongs’ cloak with blunted claws. The Vessel shakes their head, a silent reassurement. They help the bug stand, keeping Bow’s arm hooked within their own to support the latter’s weight. Bow, in turn, looks mildly embarrassed, but grateful nonetheless.

“No, please, you really don’t have to,” they murmur as they stumble after the Vessel and follow Slinky outside of the room. “I don’t— I’d really rather not burden you two with dragging me along. It’s fine, really.”

Slinky makes a face, then stops to turn around and look Bow directly in the eye.

“Hey,” they say, voice hardening a little as they speak. “You ain’t a burden, I promise. We’re not just gonna leave you behind all alone - b’sides, you look like ya haven’t had a decent meal in _months._ ” Slinky shakes their head, then, a small laugh building up in their throat. “That’s an easy fix, though. Once we get you out of here, at least.”

Bow falls quiet after that. They still look vaguely uncomfortable, but something in their posture relaxes a touch as they walk.

“Right, thank you,” they say, softly.

The rest of the walk goes in relatively easy silence. The group only pauses briefly to allow Prongs to have a look around, checking for any infected beasts still remaining. Bow’s expression falls into barely muted horror when they see the pools of dried orange spread across the floor, something akin to terrified recognition flashing in their remaining eye.

“Like I said, we got into a bit of a scuffle on our way through,” Slinky explains, then grimaces. “It was real messy, but we survived.”

“That’s good,” Bow whispers in response, sounding considerably more alarmed than before.

No shambling monsters interrupt the group as they traverse the flooded Archive, a fact that Slinky is infinitely grateful for. The building already carries a malicious sort of energy to it as it is, even without the horrific crimes on nature inhabiting its hallways.

The trio comes to a stop near a shattered window, shards of glass scattered wide around the room. Slinky is the first to climb out, careful not to cut themself on shards laying outside, and watches as Prongs clambers out beneath them. The Vessel stops, straightens out their cloak with a firm tug, then carefully lifts Bow outside of the ruined window. The bug thanks them quietly, pausing for a moment to regain their balance as they sway on their feet.

It takes them a moment to clear their equilibrium, expression pulled into a frown of concentration as they test their legs against solid ground and lean into the Vessel’s side.

Eventually, they let go, and breathe out a sigh of relief when they don’t collapse once more. They give the other two a small, shaky smile, silent but reassuring. Prongs nods in response, then lets their eyes drift off into the distance to scout out their surroundings for a path to safety.

Tiny drops of rain fall upon the trio, the beginnings of a steady trickle of water that heralds a route back to safety and the familiar comfort of the capital’s blue gleam.

“Are… are you two sure my presence won’t be a bother?” Bow asks, suddenly. Slinky shoots them a somewhat bewildered look.

“Yeah, I mean— have we given the impression of thinkin’ otherwise?”

Bow waves a hand, looking somewhat startled. “No, no, not at all! It’s just—” they pause again, then draw in a small inhale to steady themself. “I ask, because— because I was wondering—”

They have Slinky’s undivided attention now. Even Prongs watches them carefully, waiting. Bow swallows.

“I was wondering, if you two would— would let me join you.”

The caterpillar blinks in surprise. “Pardon?”

Immediately, Bow backpedals with a nervous laugh. “No, I mean— sorry, nevermind, I just thought I’d ask.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ _no,”_ Slinky replies, eyes glinting with a curious light. Well, what a turn of events.

Bow freezes, whatever explanation they had prepared dying in their throat.

“Ah,” they say. “Sorry, I just— yes. I just wanted to ask because I don’t…” A pause. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve set foot outside of that facility. I don’t— I don’t remember much of what happened, but judging by the state you two found me in - found the Archive in - I’d hazard a guess that whatever life I previously had holds little meaning now.”

Both Prongs and Slinky listen in silence, sharing a glance with each other.

“I don’t think I could return even if I wanted to,” Bow continues, antennae swaying slowly. Their face is set into a solemn frown, and they take a deep breath as they push their glasses back onto their face. “Traveling with you, I could at least provide some assistance, if needed. I have some knowledge of medicine, for one, and—”

“Hey,” Slinky says, and Bow’s mandibles click shut. “It’s alright, you don’t gotta list off reasons for bein’ useful.” The caterpillar throws the bug a reassuring grin, hoping that it’s at least evident enough through their eyes. “Yeah, first aid is useful, but sometimes all a traveler needs is some good company. Whaddya think, Prongs?”

The Vessel looks at Bow, pausing in silent contemplation. After a moment, they give a relaxed nod. Slinky’s grin widens further.

“See?” they say to Bow, the latter looking almost comically surprised. “We’ve been wandering as a duo for a good long while now, but I’d say you’ll be a welcome addition to our little party.”

Relief mixes with a muted sort of disbelief on Bow’s face, multitudes of expressions playing across the bug’s eyes before they finally settle onto mildly baffled gratitude.

“T-thank you, the both of you,” Bow breathes out, quietly but with no less emphasis. Slinky waves a hand in response, turning away to follow Prongs as the Vessel strides forward, seemingly having decided on a route that leads them further into the heart of the City.

“It really ain’t no trouble,” Slinky calls towards Bow, their relaxed grin evident in their voice. The latter quickly springs into movement, practically sprinting after the two in their haste - good, they’re quickly regaining their strength.

“Of course,” says Bow after a somewhat nervous chuckle, flinching a little as a small drop of water splashes against their antenna.

Slinky has never been so glad to feel the rain against their fur once more, and they breathe in the scent of heavy petrichor with a reverent inhale.

The caterpillar and the Vessel might not have managed to snag along any hidden treasures from the depths of the buried Archive, but Slinky has a rather persistent feeling that they’d left with something far more valuable in the end.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOW HAS BEEN RESCUED AND RECRUITED WAHOO
> 
> idk when the next chapter's gonna be released, but hopefully not too far in the future! in the meantime, enjoy this one and see y'all later :}c


	3. The Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not of this kingdom, not of this land.
> 
> Even still, she finds it's not hard to slot into a new family, in all of its weird and wonderful charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAND WE'RE BACK AND THIS TIME WITH AN EXTRA MEATY CHAPTER AT A WHOPPING 5,9K WORDS
> 
> no heavy content warnings this time, but there are descriptions and mentions of some more serious injuries in here. some blood is also present, but nothing that falls into the gore category dw
> 
> anyway. primal aspids are Bastards and im sure we can all agree on this lmao

They find Mica half-dead, collapsed over a rocky pillar as she clings on to life, down at the very bottom of Kingdom’s Edge.

* * *

One might think the pale, floating flecks cascading across the air near the far-eastern border of Hallownest were snow, with how the flakes dance and eddy in feather-light waves as the wind scatters them across the monstrously large cavern. Nay, ash would be a far more appropriate descriptor, even if it wasn’t quite right either - ashes of a kingdom long gone, rotting beneath layers of ancient stone across centuries of deathly stasis, the last ditch effort to preserve a husk of what once was the paragon of might and affluence.

Foolish as the Wyrm had been to fight against the steady and unyielding advance of time, indeed there lies a certain kind of beauty to the rock that engulfs his domain within its ghostly glass display. Clouds of white dust and crumbled stone billow around the cavern as ash churns through the air, landing onto the ground far below in tall piles. A few scattered packs of hoppers dot the landscape, kicking up heaps of the pale flecks each time they leap forward.

In the distance, someone sneezes.

Prongs pauses their leisurely walk to turn around, eyes falling on a somewhat miffed-looking Bow as the bug shakes their head and adjusts their glasses.

“Ah, apologies– I’m not quite accustomed to so much debris clouding the air.”

Slinky snorts quietly, perched atop Prongs’ shoulders as they scout out the group’s surroundings. “It’s fine, the ash is really bothering my eyes too. And I’m wearing a mask!”

Sufficiently assured that Bow is well enough to keep going, the Vessel continues their march onwards. They slow down a touch to pull out their map from within their cloak, eyes roaming across its surface as they search for the group’s current location. Slinky cranes their neck to look as well, squinting at the paper.

“I’m really not sure if we’re getting any closer to the Hive. Landscape’s startin’ to look real grim, too - I really don’t think bees would enjoy getting a mouthful o’ ash every time they went out to fly.”

“We might have missed it by accident,” Bow adds, having scrubbed their glasses free of excess ash to peer over the Vessel’s shoulder. “If I recall from the travel instructions carved into that last signpost, there are multiple entrances to the Hive. I can’t say how easy they would be to locate, though.”

Slinky huffs under their breath, pulling their hat further down when a particularly sizable breeze passes through the cavern. “Well, then we’ll just keep lookin’. It shouldn’t be far.”

Prongs listens to the discussion only half-heartedly, attention focused onto the mouth of a smaller cave nestled into the rock to the group’s right. The Vessel stops, then silently points to the entrance with a questioning glance to the two other bugs.

“Oh, that might be somethin’,” Slinky mutters, nodding for the Vessel to proceed. Bow spends a few seconds checking the trio’s surroundings for possible threats before they step closer, curious.

“Careful now,” they say to Prongs, who nods to the bug before they settle into a low crouch to dip into the cavern. They keep their pace slow to avoid snagging their horns onto any loose stones, and Slinky wraps tighter around their shoulders.

Softly glowing green meets the group once they all emerge from the short tunnel, forming a deep pool of acid that stretches for several dozen feet in all directions. Prongs stills, gaze sweeping across the cavern as they search for safe passage across the softly hissing fluid.

“Ah, damn,” says Slinky, worry and irritation clear in their eyes. “Well, this definitely ain’t anywhere near the Hive.” The caterpillar pauses, head tilted up to the cavern’s ceiling. “Doesn’t seem like it, anyway.”

“We could still have a look around,” Bow offers from slightly further away, peering over the pit of acid. “We would need to figure out a safe route, though. I’m not particularly inclined to test my balance on those cliffs, they look awfully rickety from down here.”

Prongs silently offers the bug a hand. Bow stares.

“Ah,” they say. A small sigh follows. “Well, if you promise not to drop me.”

Prongs nods to the bug, then gently hooks an arm underneath them as they lift them into their arms. Bow stifles a squeak, claws gripping the Vessel’s cloak with surprising strength, and no more than a breath goes by before Prongs tenses their legs and leaps up to the nearest platform.

Slinky’s form remains coiled tight around the Vessel’s neck as they climb, though Prongs barely even registers the weight in their concentration. Minutes pass in relative silence while they sink their claws into the worn stone, and soon the Vessel comes to a stop on a small ledge jutting from the ashen cliffside to let their limbs rest. Bow carefully drops from their hold and onto the rock beneath, pausing to brush off flecks of ash from their fur as they suppress a shiver.

“Goodness, I hadn’t anticipated for this place to stretch so high up,” they say with a shaky laugh, barely resisting the urge to peer down below. They’re no further than halfway up the cavern, but even the bubbling of the acid below them feels faint and distant from their perch.

Another noise catches their attention, then - small wingbeats, trilling up and down in a rapid flutter. Bow wouldn’t have paid much attention to the sound in the first place, quiet as it was, if it weren’t for the fact that its source seemed to be approaching them fast.

Bow turns their head, eyes scouring over the cavern’s walls to try and pinpoint the noise, and they freeze into place.

“Oh dear,” they mutter, and Slinky whirls around in surprise.

“What–”

Their question is cut off with a strangled wheeze when Prongs suddenly jerks aside, narrowly avoiding a splatter of hissing orange fluid that lands onto the ledge with almost terrifying accuracy.

Primal aspids are the  _ worst _ thing the group needs to be worried about right now, perched high above a pit of corrosive acid that would shred them without mercy should they lose their grip and fall, and even still one of the persistent little hunters has spotted them in their temporary hideout.

Prongs swiftly reaches for their nail, drawing it just in time to deflect another venom projectile as it bounces against the blade uselessly. Slinky hisses, claws almost digging into their friend’s carapace as their fur flares out with anger.

“Aspids,  _ great! _ Exactly what we needed!  _ Primal Wyrm-damned aspids!” _

The aspid in question, deftly weaving through the air while it takes aim once more, seems entirely unbothered by the caterpillar’s fury as it peers at its soon-to-be-prey with narrowed eyes. Prongs stares it down with evenly matched determination, then strikes out with their nail–

–and misses.

Bow stifles a curse, though they swear they can almost see the Vessel let out a huff of disappointment as well.

Prongs pauses to duck under another set of projectiles - one of which grazes their arm in a glancing blow, thankfully no deeper than that - before they adjust their aim and throw their strength into a faster swing.

Their nail clips the aspid’s wing before it sinks into the creature’s abdomen, and then the aspid is no more.

Prongs pauses to flick off the remains from the blade, specks of orange Infection dripping onto the stone below, and Slinky muffles a groan of relief into the Vessel’s cloak.

“Thanks,” the caterpillar wheezes, shuddering a little. “Those damn aspids are the reason why I always avoided this place. Bastards won’t stop chasing you no matter how far you run, nevermind the horribly stingin’ spit.”

Bow sighs, their back still pressed against the rock that rises from behind the stony ledge. “Indeed. I can’t say I’ve ever thoroughly explored Kingdom’s Edge myself, but I’ve heard horror stories from travelers passing through the capital to recuperate from their journeys.”

Slinky’s expression isn’t obvious from behind their mask, but the way their eyes narrow into thin slits suggests a rather sour look to their face.

“Who even approved of ‘em? Who– who allowed primal aspids to exist?”

“No one with a heart free of cruelty, I’m sure,” Bow replies. Their mandibles twitch with held-back amusement when they watch the caterpillar practically vibrate in place.

_ “Exactly! _ Regular aspids were already annoying enough, and then  _ these _ little bastard squits decided to crawl out of extinction!”

Bow barely suppresses a snicker, pausing to pull themself together before speaking. “Perhaps the Wyrm himself crafted them to torment any who trespass to the kingdom’s borders. They make a mighty effective deterrent, I imagine.”

“Their stupid little wings shouldn’t even be big enough to carry ‘em off the ground,” Slinky continues, claws gesturing furiously as they rant.

Bow nods along, face carefully neutral. “Truly despicable creatures.”

Slinky casts a glance towards Prongs just in time to catch them inclining their head, a solemn and serious agreement. The absurdity of the stoic and impassive Vessel joining in on the insults, however indirect, manages to drag out a loud snort from the caterpillar.

“Thanks for the support, buddy,” they say with a stifled cackle.

Prongs need not reply. Even the Vessel holds a certain powerful disdain for the flying spitters, that much is obvious.

Still, with the aspid dispatched, the group is once more granted a safe vantage to observe their surroundings from and plan a route. The ash continues its eternal dance across the air, though the wind seems to have calmed down some. Prongs remains in a crouch, eyes sweeping across the cavern as they search for another climbing spot.

A corpse of an armored bug, halfway coated with layers of ash as it lays on a platform further away, catches their attention. The Vessel freezes.

Slinky, having noticed their sudden lack of movement, follows their gaze beyond the ledge and squints from behind their mask.

“Oh, damn,” they manage, eyes widening once they see the body.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I’m beginning to doubt we’re headed the right way,” Bow mutters from the Vessel’s right, eyes flicking from place to place with rapidly building unease.

How none of them saw them before is a mystery to the bug, but the place is utterly littered with corpses. Some are old and buried under ash, some hang halfway off their rocky platforms high above, some lay surrounded by dried blood and Infection with a blade thrust through their chest. Most of them are armored - dull brown and red encases the bodies in a now-useless attempt at protecting their wearers, scratched and worn and dented out of shape. Some of the corpses are missing limbs, wings, heads.

Prongs slowly reaches out to lift Bow into their grip, head swiveling as they look for a way back down.

Bow smothers a shout of alarm at the sudden movement, but tightens their grasp on the Vessel’s carapace nonetheless. “Ah– yes, yes, good idea. W–we should be off.”

Prongs pauses to tense their arms around the bug, ensuring they don’t lose their hold.

The group’s route remains mostly unchanged, though the direction of their journey has now reversed. Clouds of ash stir under the Vessel’s feet as they descend lower down the cavern - some smaller rocks tumble off the platforms and fall into the acid below, dissolving with a fierce hiss. Prongs takes a moment to stop and adjust their grip on their passengers again.

A sharp, golden glint catches Slinky’s eye as they sit atop the Vessel’s shoulders, and the caterpillar turns to look. Deep obsidian carapace meets their gaze, accentuated with bright golden plating that wraps around a slender, segmented tail and broad shoulders. A pair of long antennae extends from the bug’s head, gently swaying with the wind and brushing against her wings– oh, her  _ wings. _ With how horribly bent and tattered they look, it was almost impossible to recognize her wings as such, barely clinging onto her back with torn and bleeding scraps of sinew. Slinky’s face crumples into a grimace, sympathetic.

Whoever the wasp was, she was certainly no ordinary fighter if she did hail from the Colosseum - no faded armor sits upon her shell, and no putrid orange leaks from her still-bleeding wounds. Either she had been a fresh recruit, or recently taken in against her will, or simply a foolish young warrior who had come to test her prowess against the various deadly combat gauntlets offered by the Colosseum for all who wished to court death with the promise of wealth and glory.

Regardless of what her story had been, here she lays at the bottom of the yawning cavern, nothing more than an addition to the numbers of her fellow fallen cadavers around her.

Except that corpses usually didn’t move, or make noises.

The wasp’s hand twitches. A low, near-inaudible wheeze spills through her mandibles, lungs rattling faintly from the effort.

Slinky carefully slides from their friend’s shoulders to drop onto the stone below, approaching the wasp with hesitant steps.

“Ma’am?” Slinky hazards out loud, briefly glancing behind them to see their two companions watching them curiously. Bow’s gaze flits between Slinky and the wasp, intrigue mixing with worry.

“Is she alright?” they ask, claws fidgeting idly. Slinky shrugs in response, turning back towards the injured bug with a frown.

“Not sure. She ain’t dead yet, though.”

The caterpillar pauses for a beat, then reaches out a hand to try and gently shove her awake.

The wasp shoots upwards with a howl, words tangling in her mandibles into a string of near-unintelligible shouting. Slinky jumps back with a sharp yelp of their own, nearly crashing into Prongs as they scramble backwards in surprise. The caterpillar draws in a breath to steady themself, briefly pausing to smooth out their fur - alright, so she’s  _ definitely _ not dead.

Startled as they may have gotten, they’re fairly certain they can pick out a consistent pattern in the wasp’s garbled yell, even if it seems to be in another language - certainly not native Hallowspeak, in any case. From the tone of her voice, they hazard a guess that it’s a rather sharp barrage of swears.

“Good mornin’ to you, too,” Slinky mutters as they gently massage their temples to work out the ringing in their ears.

Bow’s own fur is almost comically flared, the sudden shouting having sprung them into leaping onto another nearby platform from the shock. They’re still shaking a little, voice layered with a faint warble of panic.

“That’s– oh dear. She– she’s awake, it seems.” Bow pauses to clear their throat, then carefully leans closer to take a look at the now-trembling wasp. “I’m– I’m honestly a little surprised. With how extensive her injuries look, even at just a glance, she’d have to have tremendous willpower to remain conscious.”

Prongs slowly lowers their hand from the handle of their nail, watching the wasp with sharp eyes. She’s in no condition to attack any of them, the Vessel concludes, and so their stance relaxes into a loose crouch. Still, she’s awake, and a potential threat - Prongs elects to stay in place in lieu of approaching, letting the two others do more thorough research as they observe.

The wasp opens her eyes, and Slinky jumps back with a startled chirp.

“Um– alright, she ain’t unconscious either, just stand back for a bit–”

She draws out a hiss, and the caterpillar falls quiet. Slowly, movement hindered by her waning strength and the trembling of her cracked shell, she props herself up by the elbows and stops to blink at her surroundings. Her eyes, though open, seem distant and unfocused - no doubt caused by the pain from her many injuries all clamoring for her attention.

As soon as the wasp sees the crowd surrounding her, though, she freezes into place. Terror flashes across her face for a fleeting second before it’s smothered under a steely glare, a silent challenge to anyone wanting to approach her.

“Who–” she speaks, voice cracking horribly, and stops to rasp out a broken cough. Pale blue fluid drips from her mandibles, and she spits out another glob of it with a frustrated snarl.

“Hello,” Bow greets the wasp, offering her a small wave. They drop down from their perch to approach the bug, keeping their movement slow to avoid provoking her. “My apologies if my friend here startled you, we didn’t mean to cause you any alarm.”

The wasp peers at them unflinchingly, eyes narrowed as she remains still and tense. Bow suppresses a sigh - it’s understandable that she’d be wary around a group of unknown bugs, especially considering how her last interaction with others seems to have been a catastrophically negative one. Bow tries their best to summon a friendly smile.

“I suppose introductions should be in order, if I may. My name is Bow, and the caterpillar here–” they pause to gesture to the bug in question, who waves at the wasp with a good-natured wink, “– is Slinky. Our taller companion may seem a little intimidating, I know, but I assure you that Prongs means you no harm either.” The Vessel nods along, eyes following the wasp’s movement closely.

The wasp, in turn, watches each bug as they’re introduced, her posture only relaxing marginally. She doesn’t look as poised to bolt away now, though she still seems distracted by something.

“Pin,” the wasp suddenly mutters, haphazardly pawing at the ashen rock beneath her. “Where’s… pin.”

Bow blinks. “Pardon?”

“Need pin,” she repeats, voice hoarse, and continues searching the ground around her with increasingly erratic pats.

“Your…” Bow pauses, and a realization forms. “Ah. You wield a pinblade, do you not?”

The wasp grunts in what Bow assumes to be an affirmative, before her hands still and she hisses out another low curse. Some bugs, Bow remembers, fight with weapons of greater finesse and precision than a traditional nail of Hallownest - the pinblade is merely one of many, though it is generally more commonly used by speedier warriors that prefer evasion and careful strikes to the more solid and consistent power of a nail.

“I’m sorry to say, but it does seem that your weapon’s missing,” Bow says to the wasp, noting the lack of a glint of sharpened metal anywhere near her perch. Either she had lost it before her fall, or it had been knocked into and dissolved within the pit of hissing acid that lays at the bottom of the mountainous cavern.

Speaking of which, they’d eventually need to move her to a safer location after an initial application of first aid - Bow would most certainly be lying if they said they didn’t feel at least a bit nervous, suspended so close above the corrosive fluid.

“How bad d’you think it is?” Slinky asks from a few feet away, neck craned towards the wasp as she draws in shallow breaths on the ground. Bow frowns.

“I’m not sure. I’d need to take a closer look, but I don’t know if she’ll let me.”

_ “Let _ you?” Slinky interrupts, squinting. “She’ll die if we don’t do something, that’s for sure. I mean, take this with a grain o’ salt from someone who’s looted several corpses before, but the thing is– those were  _ already _ dead. Nothin’ to be done about bodies already crumbling on the ground.” Slinky stops to jab a thumb towards the wasp.  _ “She _ ain’t, though. She’s still kickin’ - but not for long, if we don’t do something about it.”

Bow listens to the caterpillar with a solemn frown, then lets out a sigh.

“Well, you do have a good point.”

They let their eyes roam across the wasp’s numerous injuries, pausing on her badly mangled wings, and suppress a flinch at the painful sight.

“Ah, I– hmm.” They draw in a deep breath, then slowly reach towards the wasp’s back. “Apologies in advance, ma’am, I’ll try my best to not make this too unpleasant.”

The wasp jerks away when she sees them move, a distrustful growl rattling from her mandibles.

“G’t off me,” she slurs, weakly batting Bow’s hand away.

Bow doesn’t flinch at the impact, but hisses out a sigh with their eyes cinched shut for a beat.

“Ma’am, please, I’m not trying to hurt you, I give you my word. I need to examine your wings to make sure they don’t fall off.”

That gives the wasp some pause. She blinks, squinting at the bug with a sharp sort of wariness, but doesn’t attempt to strike again.

Then, eventually, oh-so-slowly, she lowers her hand to her side with a stifled wheeze.

“Alright,” she says.

“Thank you,” Bow replies, just as softly, before they lean back in to gently lift the wasp’s wings into view. The movement makes her wince, drawing in a sharp inhale, and her hands clench into trembling fists. 

“Do you have a name?” Bow asks the wasp as they work, careful to keep their voice soothing and their hands steady. The wasp, in turn, seems to bite back another swear, before she lets out a small sigh.

“Mica,” she says, and adds nothing more.

Bow cracks a small smile at that. It’s strained, but genuine.

“That’s a lovely name. It’s nice to meet you, Mica.”

The wasp grunts, too exhausted to speak more.

On second inspection, it seems to Bow that Mica’s wings - while certainly the most extensive of her injuries - seem a bit more complicated to handle than they’d initially anticipated. They elect to leave them for later, and instead shift their focus to the numerous bleeding gashes scattered across the wasp’s carapace. Flecks of ash cling to her shell, stuck to the pale blue hemolymph leaking from her flesh.

“Let’s see,” Bow mutters quietly, reaching into their travel bag for soft cloth to clean the wounds with and a small container of healing salve they’d prepared for emergencies. Then, eventually, they get to work on the worst of the injuries, slowly and with care. They whisper out another small apology when their hand accidentally pokes too hard into a wound, causing the wasp to flinch.

Minutes pass as Bow moves from injury to injury, cleaning and disinfecting each wound before applying the salve and carefully wrapping it with fresh bandages. They end up having to gently remove the tip of a blade from her shin, once, embedded deep into the flesh in a jagged gash - its design reminds Bow of the dangerous, curved weapons used by fighters of the Colosseum high up above.

The bug’s frown deepens until it almost crosses into a scowl. What needless brutality, endorsed merely for entertaining a crowd with a lust for blood, upheld at the expense of hundreds of lives lost with a simple twist of a knife or a spear through one’s guts. What was the King thinking, allowing such a horrid pit of death to be built in the first place?

Mica is still tense, Bow notes idly. They try to keep as much worry away from their expression as they can - for her sake, mainly. They pull their mandibles into what they hope is a reassuring smile.

“May I ask, where are you from? How did you end up in Hallownest?”

“Don’t—” she begins, and coughs. “Don’t you think that’s a little…” Another wince as Bow’s hand brushes against a sore bruise, “... personal?”

Bow lets out a small, uneasy laugh. “Right, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I apologize.”

“S’fine,” Mica mutters, grimacing.

Another few minutes pass in silence as Bow checks over her injuries one more time, adjusting each bandage as needed, but soon their gaze falls upon the wasp’s back again and they suppress a sigh.

“Now what to do about those,” they murmur under their breath, flickers of worry finally seeping into their voice as they speak. Their companions, watching silently from around them, share a look.

“Uh—” Slinky begins, then clears their throat. “Does— do any of us actually know how to take care of wings?” they half-whisper, gesturing towards the wasp’s injured appendages in question. Bow looks distinctly uncomfortable as they tug on their bowtie, expression falling, and offers a helpless shrug in response.

“I don’t— I have some decent experience in medicine, yes, but wings are not something I’m particularly familiar with mending.” They draw in a wavering inhale, grimacing. “I’m sorry.”

Even through their mask, Slinky’s growing despair is evident.

Prongs watches the interaction quietly.

Something underneath their cloak stirs, then slowly pushes the fabric upwards and out of the way as a pair of armored elytra rise from the Vessel’s back. Prongs feels the distant urge to shiver as the cold wind of Kingdom’s Edge brushes past the exposed nerves beneath their shoulders, but remains as still as a statue nonetheless.

Twin pairs of shimmering wings unfold, heaving up and down in gently oscillating waves and glowing with a pale, gossamer gleam. Falling flecks of ash catch the light of the softly shining appendages, and for a moment the Vessel can almost pretend it is snow, instead.

Bow and Slinky both stare at them like they’d grown another head.

Which, for all intents and purposes, they might as well have.

Silence rings for what feels like a full, uninterrupted minute.

“You have  _ wings?” _ Slinky suddenly blurts, the pitch of their voice approaching a rather impressive mimicry of a tea kettle. Bow continues to stare, looking somewhat dumbstruck.

Prongs simply inclines their head, puzzled. Does it really matter that much? The topic of them having wings had never previously become relevant, so they failed to see any reason to reveal this fact until now.

Some small, traitorous part of them still feels a pang of guilt for suddenly dropping it upon the two other bugs’ heads. The Vessel swiftly squashes the instinctual emotion into nothingness, where it belongs.

To the two bugs before them, they offer a small shrug instead.

“Unbelievable,” Slinky breathes out with an incredulous shake of their head. “I’ve known ya for, what, how many months? And  _ now _ you’re telling me you’ve had wings this entire time?”

Bow finally seems to find their voice, and gently elbows Slinky to the side with a small frown.

_ “Quiet, _ you. You two can talk about this later. More importantly, they might be able to help her.”

Slinky bites back an indignant squawk, shooting a sharp (if harmless) glare towards the other bug. Still, they obediently scoot off and further away, giving the Vessel more room to approach and look over the wasp’s numerous injuries. The latter folds their wings back underneath their hardened covers, rolling their shoulders for a moment to let their cloak flow back into place.

Prongs settles into a crouch above Mica, craning their neck as they lean over her shoulder. Slowly, with as much care as they can muster within their curved claws, they grasp one of the wasp’s wings and lift it into view. She, in turn, bites back a sharp hiss, antennae curling.

The Vessel’s eyes roam across the bent appendage, marred by tears and scratches that reach all the way to the base of the wing. It’s honestly a miracle that it’s still attached, all things considered.

Prongs holds still for a moment, feeling around for their reserves of Soul. Good, they’re mostly full - enough to shave off the worst of the damage, even if Mica’s injuries may run far deeper than they can fix in one go. They don’t want to risk rendering her flightless by accidentally rewriting the nervous system around her wings, anyway - she’ll still have to wait, and to let herself heal by natural means. It will be a long time before she may fly again.

The Vessel releases a small, soundless sigh through the gaps of their mask. Their eyes meet the wasp’s own, hoping that their pre-emptive apology for the following discomfort carries over through their gaze alone.

“Whatever you’re gonna do, just go ahead,” Mica mutters, sensing the Vessel’s intent from their expectant stare. She pulls her mandibles into a grimace, steeling herself.

Prongs nods, lowering a palm above the base of her wings, and concentrates.

Pale white light flickers around the Vessel’s claws, seeping into the wasp’s carapace with a faint hum. Mica grinds her jaws with an audible creak, but does her best to stay still as the Vessel’s donated Soul weaves across her flesh and stitches her shell back together, almost like breaking pottery played in reverse.

A few minutes pass, the wind howling around the group as Prongs channels their light through the wasp’s carapace. Her wings slowly unfold, stretching out into a more natural position as wisps of Soul dance around her back, smoothing out the tears and painful crooks across the iridescent surface.

Soon after, the glow dies down as Prongs retracts their hand, claws curling back into a loose fist on their lap. They’ve done what they can, now - the rest is up to her.

There are still multitudes of small, splintered cracks that remain over Mica’s carapace, and Prongs elected not to touch most of the bleeding wounds altogether - they feel drained enough as it is, and Bow did a fine job wrapping them anyway. The Vessel gives a nod to the wasp, who mirrors the gesture with a grateful if a bit confused expression.

“I– Thank you. For that.” Mica’s eyes search the Vessel for another second or two, hesitant. Her gaze is sharper now, clear and alert; she’s still in some amount of pain, but Prongs did their best to numb the sensation and give her a brief respite regardless.

“Splendid work, the both of you,” Bow says with a smile, still perched a few feet away from the wasp. Mica gives them an odd look.

“Why? I didn’t do anything, your friend here did all the heavy lifting. I just sat here uselessly,” she responds, antennae twitching. Bow slowly shakes their head, pushing their glasses into place.

“Ah, not quite. I have some knowledge of Soul-based healing, though I must admit I have no personal experience with it myself. I’ve heard that it is...” A small pause. “... rather  _ uncomfortable, _ mildly put. Most would likely have started screaming by now, but you remained patient nonetheless. Had you started thrashing in place, I imagine it would have been far more difficult to steer the flow of Soul into where it was needed the most.”

Mica mulls over the explanation for a moment, frowning.

“I guess I’ve felt worse,” she quietly murmurs to herself, idly scratching her arm. Bow winces a little at the words, the memory of blood freely spilling out of her shell still fresh in their mind.

“Yes, of course,” Bow says in response, still looking somewhat distraught.

A small pause follows, before Slinky quietly clears their throat.

“You, my friend, are full of surprises,” the caterpillar pipes up from a platform further away, gaze directed towards Prongs. The Vessel inclines their head, electing not to reply further. There are a lot of things the group doesn’t know about them - some they’ve simply not elaborated on, and some they’re not sure if they can ever explain. A small part of them feels it’s better that way.

“Can you stand?” Bow suddenly asks, eyeing the wasp carefully. Mica squints a little, pausing as she assesses herself, then holds up a claw.

“One– one moment.”

Mica slowly shifts her position into a kneel, moving haltingly to avoid jostling her wings, then sits still for a moment with a small grimace. She takes a few seconds to move again, lifting herself into a wobbling stand on unsteady legs. There’s an odd little noise - she swallows down a whine, the strain on her carapace clearly causing her distress.

“Easy now,” Bow interjects, voice soft as they lean over to support the wasp’s weight. For a moment, Mica almost looks like she wants to push the other bug away, but no more than a subtle glimpse of territorial discomfort flashes across her face before she sighs and relents.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, almost too quiet for anyone to hear. Bow smiles a little, shaking their head.

“It’s really no trouble, ma’am. Let’s just get you out of here.”

‘Getting her out of here’ turns out being a bit of a more challenging task than initially thought, but a few moments of spontaneous brainstorming eventually end with Mica being gently carried by Prongs away from the acid pit and onto solid ground. The rest of the group sticks close together - none of them are particularly eager to get picked off by another stray primal aspid or spotted by a swarm of hoppers.

At one point, Slinky ends up offering for their party to escort Mica to visit the Nailsmith and craft her a new weapon to replace her lost pinblade. The wasp declines, at first, but there is a glint in her eyes that suggests she’s not quite as opposed to the idea as she makes it seem.

Mica ends up sticking around for much longer than any of them had anticipated. Soon after their encounter in Kingdom’s Edge, it became apparent that the wasp’s injuries were still too volatile to be left unmended, and her still-healing wings would limit her mobility severely.

They end up letting her stay in their camp for a few nights, keeping her company and allowing her to travel with them in their wandering. The days eventually stretch into weeks, then a month, and not long after that Mica starts to practice flying again.

Her wings, while almost fully healed now, are still weak and unbalanced. She makes a valiant attempt at pretending it doesn’t bother her nearly as much as it truly does, but Prongs is not so easily fooled.

The Vessel ends up helping her practice, too. The two spend weeks in the air, gradually rebuilding the wasp’s lost strength with rigorous training, until one day Mica gets to a point where her old injury seems nothing more than a faded memory and a dull ache between her shoulders.

She could have left, then - flied off to whatever corner of the world she came from, back home and to safety, away from the skeletal husk of what once was Hallownest.

Instead, she surprises the whole group by expressing a wish to stay with them, join their travels for a time left unsaid. Baffled as the request leaves them all, none of them find that they particularly mind the wasp’s presence. Warm welcomes are held, a celebration and a greeting anew all at once.

Eventually, Mica admits that without them, she has nowhere else to go - as the rest had suspected, she was captured and taken to fight within the Colosseum against her wishes, trapped during a passing visit to Hallownest in her own journey. She never says why she left her home in the first place, though no one pries her for answers, either.

Slinky is beginning to see a trend, here - one by one, their little party collects another lost and wandering soul, adrift with no purpose other than to survive. They’re drawn in like a magnet, pulled into orbit by the gravity of a tight-knit crowd of thieves and travelers, and soon it’s hard to think they had ever been alone at all.

Mica’s warbling laughter is a joy to hear, anyhow, and none of them can say the sound doesn’t bring them comfort after all their troublesome adventures. Slinky’s grin grows wider, and they rummage around their memories for another joke to recite before the campfire.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mica joins the party!!
> 
> man oh MAN in case it wasnt already obvious from this and the previous two chapters im having fun with all the environmental descriptions hsgdjkhf
> 
> also!! im pretty sure ive figured out an actual posting schedule now! a grand majority of this fic's material is already written and finished, perhaps some is in need of some minor edits and checks, but other than that all the heavy lifting is done! new chapters will be dropping every sunday, see yall next week hehoo


	4. The Sibling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something stirs within the Void encased in the Vessel's shell, a distant but ever-present pulse that tugs them along an invisible path.
> 
> They're not as alone as they thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome BACK i bring thee some more snacks, enjoy and have fun :3c
> 
> no new content warnings for this chapter, just a very brief bit of canon-typical gore and blood (dispatching of infected husks n the like ykno)

They find Bottle shivering and injured, huddling inside a rotting apartment in the heart of the City of Tears.

* * *

It wouldn’t be the first time the all-encompassing dampness of the capital’s ceaseless rain has grated on Bow’s nerves, but who are they to complain? It is their home, after all - or it was, once - and they’ve long grown used to the persistent humidity that hails from the cavern’s ceiling. Ignoring the long and irritating period of having to wring their fur dry after every time they step outside, the rain is rather soothing in its rhythmic drumming - as many times as the bug has seen it, they’ve never grown tired of the sight.

Mica seems to hold a similar opinion, trailing behind the rest of the group with wide eyes as she takes in the City’s ghostly blue gleam. She practically spins in place as her eyes swivel around, eagerly gazing at the rain-soaked spires and pillars with the same fascinated wonder she had shown on her very first visit to the capital.

“You’ve been here before, Mica,” Bow calls out to her with a small laugh, “and every time you have the same reaction. Are you sure you’re not bored, yet?”

“I– I know,” Mica stutters in response, distracted. “But still, there's– it’s gorgeous. All of it. My home may have had cities built taller and grander than anything here, but there’s something about this place– it’s architecture, its history, its atmosphere is just _mesmerizing.”_

Bow’s mandibles twitch, then curl into a smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I haven’t lived here for a long time now, but I must agree that even after all these years its magic still remains unmarred.”

A husk sentry rasps out a hoarse shriek nearby, alerted by their voice, and stumbles after the bug with its weapon raised.

Bow jumps off to the side to evade it, just in time to see it collapse onto the stone tiles beneath it with its carapace swiftly parted in two by a gleaming blade. Prongs shakes off a few drops of lingering Infection from their nail, before they sheathe their weapon on their back once more and cast their eyes around their surroundings to check for any remaining foes.

Bow grimaces, a small shudder rattling their shell for a moment. “For the most part, anyway. The husks have been getting awfully snappy in recent times.”

They hear Mica mutter an agreement from their left, and turn their head to see her slide her pinblade back into its protective covering. Instinctually prepared to fight, it seems.

“We should probably get moving before any others wander back here to see where their buddy disappeared,” Slinky pipes up from behind the group, eyes shifting around to mirror the Vessel’s attentive scouting. Bow nods to the caterpillar, a short hum of agreement warbling in their throat.

“Yes, certainly. Mica?”

“Yep, on it,” the wasp calls out, quickly breaking off into a short jog to get closer to the rest of the group.

The team marches onwards, only the occasional stray vengefly swooping in to try and grab a bite out of the wandering bugs. Prongs is swift on their feet, however, and it only takes a few carefully aimed swings of their nail to dispatch the flying little nuisances.

“Y’think Quill’s gonna be excited to see us again?” Slinky asks, gently elbowing Bow to the side with a grin. The latter huffs quietly at the gesture, but their expression remains mildly amused.

“Maybe. It’s only been a couple weeks, though - we’d have to show her something really impressive if you’re hoping she’ll dish out any extra geo our way.”

The caterpillar’s expression somehow seems to take on an even more mischievous edge - how it’s even possible at that point is beyond Bow’s understanding.

“Not to worry, I’ve got that covered just fine.” Slinky spends a few seconds to rummage through their bag before they fish out some sort of flat, disc-shaped contraption. At a glance, it almost resembles the collar guard of a suit of armor.

Bow squints at the object, then leans in to take a closer look. They can’t help it - a loud, surprised snort escapes through their mandibles.

“Oh, Wyrm, you _didn’t.”_

Slinky cackles out loud, shoulders shaking, and pulls the item back into their bag with a swift yank. “Oh, yep, I _did._ I had a little more time after the last heist, and this thing was just… _laying_ there, glintin’ through the window. Ya know I couldn’t pass up the opportunity even if I wanted,” they explain, voice tinged with such an insufferable smugness that Bow can’t help but shake their head with a laugh of their own.

“Good _grief,_ Slinky. An antique decorative shell collar carved from fossilized chitin and engraved with gold filigree? This is practically ancient, a prized heirloom of unimaginable value! Whoever had previously owned it must have either been a fool, or dead, because no sane bug who knows just what they had gotten their hands on would keep this on display without rigorously maintained security guarding it.” Bow pauses for a moment, combing through their memories. “You know, I’d hazard a guess that this might even rival some King’s Idols in age alone. Are you sure we shouldn’t just take this to the Relic Seeker instead?”

Slinky snorts, waving a hand. “Nah, not a chance. The last time I visited him he chased me out with a broom and immediately banned me from ever coming in again.” A pause. “To be fair, I _did_ try to snag one of the old trinkets he had laying around, but what can I say? A thief’s a thief, nothin’ to be done to change that.”

Bow resists the urge to roll their eyes, and instead settles for a sigh.

“Of course. Of course you did.”

The group quiets down after that as they continue to walk, only the eternal rain breaking the silence of their stroll.

It almost feels a bit _too_ quiet. Bow slows down for a beat, frowning, and turns their head to look around.

“Wasn’t Prongs right behind us?”

Slinky jerks into alertness, eyes sharp. Their earlier easygoing flair all but vanishes as the caterpillar stops in place, though their expression doesn’t quite cross into genuinely worried territory just yet.

“Prongs, you there?” they call out.

Silence.

“Prongs?”

No response. Slinky narrows their eyes, and turns around to check where their friend has fallen back.

The sight of Prongs stood beside the plaque that marks the memorial to the Hollow Knight meets their eyes, and the caterpillar stifles a sigh.

They always do this. Every time the group passes by the Fountain Square in their travels, the Vessel stops before the statue standing tall and mighty in the heart of the capital and simply stares. It’s almost a ritual of sorts, like clockwork.

The statue, depicting an armored warrior with a fiercely intimidating and steadfast air to them, surrounded by three masked figures gazing up at their face, remains still and silent in its eternal vigil over the rain-soaked City. Slinky watches Prongs pause before the sculpted stone, head tilted up to the knight’s empty eyes in a way that makes the expressionless mask on the Vessel’s face seem almost reverent and mournful.

Their cloak, weighted down by rainwater, hugs their carapace in gently flowing shapes that all serve to accentuate the sharpened spines and plating that makes up their ink-black shell. The knight’s own cloak and armor hides most of their body away, leaving only their face and horns exposed, but Slinky can’t help but note that the shape of the stone they’re carved from bears a very familiar, dangerous edge.

Now that they think of it, their friend and the knight both look _awfully_ similar to each other.

Something about the idea gives the caterpillar a small, uneasy shudder. Privately, they hope it can be simply chalked up as the cold of the rain finally soaking through their fur.

“Prongs?” they ask again as they approach the Vessel, Bow and Mica waiting behind them.

Prongs tears their gaze away from the statue after a short pause, inclining their head towards the caterpillar in a silent confirmation that Slinky has their attention. The latter offers the Vessel a small wave.

“Hey, buddy,” Slinky begins, “You alright?”

Prongs gives a brisk nod in response. They cast one last lingering look towards the statue, pausing for another brief moment, then settle into a slow walk to join the rest of the group once more.

“Try to keep up, okay?” Slinky chirps up to the Vessel with a playful nudge to their leg. Prongs quickens their pace in response, and Slinky breathes out a tiny sigh of relief.

That relief barely lasts for a few minutes before the Vessel freezes again, movement halting like they’d hit an invisible wall. They stand, still as a statue, and their head swivels behind them to point further into the City like an arrowhead waiting to launch from its bowstring.

 _Now_ Slinky’s starting to get worried.

“Prongs? What is it now, buddy? Are you o–”

Prongs tears off into a sprint, cloak flying behind them as they fling themself into whatever distant disturbance had grabbed their attention.

Slinky rasps out a cough when the Vessel’s sudden takeoff sends a splash of water spraying across their face, but soon they gape after their friend’s rapidly disappearing form in open horror.

The caterpillar barely takes a moment to cast a terrified glance towards their companions behind them, both staring at them with worry and bewilderment, before instinct screams at them to _run._

And so they do.

Slinky nearly stumbles over a collapsed pole in their haste, cursing under their breath as they race after the Vessel.

“Prongs!” they call out after their friend, voice wavering at the edges as they rush, lungs burning from exertion. “Slow down! What’s gotten into ya?”

Prongs doesn’t stop, and it’s as if they don’t even acknowledge Slinky’s voice - their long legs carry them far as they continue to sprint, and soon the caterpillar has to fall back and slump over the edge of the fountain to catch their breath. Their friend disappears behind a corner, and into one of the wealthier apartments crafted for the City’s old nobles. Slinky draws in heavy gasps of air, wheezing, and their heart hammers against their shell as their limbs tremble beneath them. Panic doesn’t take long to set in - what could possibly have startled the Vessel so badly that they take off like a harpoon shot from its mount? Why would they leave their friends behind in doing so?

It doesn’t make sense. _None_ of it makes sense. Prongs has always stuck to their side like glue, a silent and lingering presence that follows them wherever they go; a soundless shadow, always there.

There’s the noise of a nail piercing through shell, a horrid, prolonged ripping that rings across the Fountain Square and stabs into Slinky’s core like a spear made of ice. Screaming follows - awful, distorted shrieks that can only belong to the infected husks that still wander the capital’s winding streets.

Slinky tears themself off their perch with a wheeze, and runs after the commotion as fast as their legs can carry them.

The battle continues for another few moments, the howling of the husks - many of them, from the sounds of it - gradually growing quiet as something tears through their carapace with powerful swings. For a beat, Slinky can almost imagine the earth shaking from the force of each impact - each strike cracks like a firing cannon, only growing louder as the caterpillar approaches.

The screaming is no more by the time Slinky stumbles into the building, heaving deep breaths as they steady themself against a wall. It’s stained by orange, the caterpillar notes with sudden horror - splatters of the vile, diseased fluid line the rotting walls, coating destroyed furniture and mixing with the rainwater that leaks from the half-collapsed ceiling.

Corpses of former nobles lay scattered across the floor, their carapace distorted with prolonged infection and further ravaged by what looks like several deep gashes across their faces and bodies. Slinky represses the urge to gag, instead raising their eyes to look for their friend with no small amount of frightened concern.

Deeper inside the room, Prongs sits crouched beside a destroyed table, back turned to the door as they– purr? Are they purring?

The caterpillar pauses for a moment to blink, noting the Vessel’s nail as it lays forgotten a few feet away, the blade stained with putrid orange. Slinky steps further inside the building, careful to keep their approach quiet as they stare at their friend, the latter still seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Listening again, Slinky realizes the Vessel isn’t purring - well, not _quite,_ anyway. The noise rolls from their chest in a deep, rumbling croon that nearly rattles Slinky’s carapace with its force, quavering with an almost rhythmic pattern that brings to mind the notes of an ancient, voiceless language of beings unknown to the minds of mere mortal bugs.

Slinky is suddenly, once again, intimately aware of just how _different_ their friend is from any other bug they’ve met in their travels. Their silence, while familiar, almost seems that much more suffocating than a mere absence of sound– the way their cloak flows in perfect sync with their movement, acting more like an extension of their own body than a simple piece of cloth– the empty sockets of their mask where their eyes lay, still as a lake undisturbed, darker than a sky with no stars and seeming so deep that if Slinky gazed into them too long they’d get pulled right in and never wake up again.

The caterpillar fights the instinctual urge to turn tail and run, their brain screaming to them of _danger_ and _threat._ It isn’t a new feeling, for them - the very first time they ever saw the Vessel, trapped high atop a tower from within their glass cage, the same terrified thought had surfaced with a shriek and demanded that they escape _right now._ They were glad they decided to ignore the feeling, then, to call out for help - Prongs may be dangerous and a force they never wish to cross in their life, but not to _them._ Not to their friends. Never to their friends.

(Slinky privately hopes that the Vessel, too, thinks of them as friends. They seem comfortable enough to travel with the rest of the group, anyhow, but their own thoughts and feelings often seem to remain a mystery regardless.)

Slowly, careful not to set foot into the puddles of drying Infection around them, the caterpillar takes a few steps forward.

Though perhaps, in hindsight, approaching Prongs from behind wasn’t one of Slinky’s smartest ideas. Still, the bug doubts anyone could blame them for shrieking when the Vessel suddenly whirls around so fast their cloak whips through the air and _snarls._

 _“Whoa,_ hey, easy—” Slinky startles, their two upper pairs of hands instinctively flying up into a placating stance. “Easy, Prongs, it’s just me.”

Prongs remains locked into a defensive crouch, obsidian eye sockets pinning Slinky into place. Another few seconds of tense silence pass before the Vessel’s stance relaxes marginally, a small, near-invisible sigh billowing in a cloud through the gaps in their mask. Slinky offers them a shaky grin, warily taking another step forward.

“There ya go, it’s fine. You’re fine.” They pause for a moment, eyes catching onto a glimpse of pink fabric swaddled within the Vessel’s arms. “What d’ya have there, bud?” they ask, voice softening a touch as they crane their neck for a better look.

This turns out to be a mistake, as Prongs immediately tucks the mystery object within their cloak again, a dangerous rumble reverberating deep within their chest as wisps of black smoke flicker around the edges of their eyes.

Slinky blinks in surprise, lowering their head a little in response to the threat display.

“Hey now,” they say, making an attempt to quiet their voice further to not disturb the Vessel more. “It’s alright, it’s just me, you know I won’t hurt you,” they continue. Something in their guts contorts uncomfortably at the thought of their closest friend somehow turning hostile towards them.

Another few minutes pass, Prongs continuing to stare down the bug with almost frightening patience.

Then, slowly, their shoulders droop into a more relaxed hold as they ease their grip on the bundle of pink, still nestled snugly within their arms.

Hurried footsteps patter behind Slinky, and along with Prongs, they turn to look as Bow practically sprints into view. The bug almost collapses where they stand once they stop near the pair, and lean onto their knees for support with a drawn-out wheeze. Mica jogs into place next to them, expression tinged with concern and wings held rigid.

“What’s up? Why’d you two run off?” the wasp asks, casting a nervous glance at the still-exhausted Bow before her gaze falls upon Prongs, eyes widening. “Oh, there you are!” she gasps, then flinches a little when the Vessel’s head snaps towards her, nail-sharp eyes locking with her own.

Slinky _really_ doesn’t like the tension that rises within the room.

“Easy, Prongs,” they mutter to the Vessel, waiting for another beat as they gradually relax further. Slinky silently lets out a sigh of relief when their friend’s posture droops, their eyes roaming across the two other bugs as familiar recognition finally sets in.

“Is– is everything alright?” Bow manages to cough out, still sounding heavily winded but no longer on the verge of falling over.

“I think so, yeah,” says Slinky, casting another glance towards the Vessel, waiting. Prongs doesn’t move much, carefully watching the rest of the group.

“What’d you find?” Mica asks, head tilted with curiosity.

Immediately, Slinky tenses, anticipating another outburst. Their worry seems to be for nothing, however, as this time the Vessel merely falls still for a second or two, before they slowly uncurl their arms from around their treasure.

All three bugs before them instantly grow quiet and slowly lean in, interest piqued.

There, wrapped within the Vessel’s arms, is a child.

For a moment, everything freezes to a halt.

Beside them, Mica breathes out something in her native language, utterly mesmerized.

The child, swaddled in a soft pink cloak that reaches all the way down to their legs, grips Prongs’ arms with trembling hands as they shiver in place. A round metal disc resembling a bottle cap is tucked against their chest like a shield, scratched and worn with age. Two empty sockets sit within a white mask that surrounds the child’s entire skull, three pairs of blunt horns pointing outwards from the sides of their head.

There’s a giant, horrific crack that runs down the child’s face, slashed across the middle of their mask and allowing drops of pitch-black liquid to seep out in uneven globs. Bow gasps quietly as they see the crack, concerned - the sound makes the child flinch, however, and they shake harder with a noise resembling a choked hiccup of fear.

Mica immediately goes to try and soothe the child, but Prongs is faster - gently, they pull their small form against their own chest, letting the little one clutch their cloak with tiny fists. Soon, Prongs starts their bone-deep croon anew, the rumbling purr reverberating deep through their shell once more. The child’s shaking slows down some, seemingly calmed by the sound, and they press against the Vessel’s carapace with even more insistence.

The realization hits Slinky like a runaway stag, and they bite back a curse for not figuring it out sooner.

“Were ya comforting them, before?” they ask the Vessel, keeping their voice soft. Prongs doesn’t respond immediately, gaze drawn to the trembling child still clinging to them, but soon they raise their eyes and offer a small nod to the caterpillar.

“How did you even find them here?” Bow wonders aloud, seemingly still anxious to look over the child’s injuries.

Prongs doesn’t reply. The child grabs another fistful of cloth into their small hands, then sneezes.

Mica does her best to muffle a snort, but fails rather spectacularly.

“Oh, goodness,” she giggles quietly, scooting over to get a better look as the little one turns around to watch her, now looking far more confused than frightened. Prongs’ grip on them is firm, still, but the Vessel seems much more willing to let the others approach now.

“Hello,” Mica warbles at the child with a little wave. Her voice is notably higher in pitch than before, though Slinky isn’t sure if she’s even aware of the fact. “How’d you end up here all by yourself? Gosh, you’re so small!”

Bow’s face is pulled into a rather amusing expression, trying to hold back laughter as they watch the interaction, and even Slinky can’t help but grin underneath their mask when the child mirrors Mica’s greeting with a clumsy shake of their arm.

Prongs tenses just a fraction as the wasp draws closer, but lets her advance regardless. Their reverberating croon has grown quiet now that the child is no longer on the verge of a panic attack, though they still keep their grasp on them secure.

For a moment, Slinky silently wonders if the hands that now hold the little one with delicate tenderness are truly the very same claws that, mere minutes ago, had torn through a swarm of infected husks with enough force to render some of the corpses entirely faceless.

They wonder, then, what could have summoned that amount of sheer _fury_ in who was - usually - a stoic and patient protector with near-infinite patience.

“Who are you, little one?” Slinky murmurs to the child, more of an idle regard than an active seeking of answers. Still, Prongs shifts ever-so-slightly, gaze boring deep into the caterpillar’s eyes.

The Vessel goes to raise their hands to sign, then promptly realizes that such an action would be rather difficult with an armful of infant occupying said hands. They pause for a beat, thinking over a solution, and eventually settle on gently depositing the child onto their lap beside the crook of their arm.

Then, Prongs goes to sign, producing a singular word for an explanation that leaves the caterpillar blinking owlishly.

_Sibling._

There’s a brief pause.

“What?” is all Slinky can muster in response.

Prongs stares at them in return, unflinching.

Silence stretches on for another beat as the rest of the group processes the revelation, Mica’s eyes still fixated on the child and Bow’s antennae swaying slowly in their silent deliberation.

Slinky, too, is absorbed in thought, watching as the child peers at each bug before them with gradually growing curiosity. They’re no longer shaking, though they’re still curled tight against Prongs’ abdomen in an instinctual search of safety.

It is then that the caterpillar takes notice of the similarities between the two, held so close together it’s almost impossible to imagine them ever being separate. The child’s mask mirrors Prongs’ own in all but size and the shape of their horns, and the bits of their shell visible underneath their cloak - as soft as a newly born hatchling’s, now that Slinky really takes a closer look - are the color of the same inky obsidian that makes the Vessel’s armored carapace.

Suddenly it isn’t hard at all to really accept that the two are, indeed, siblings. Even the child’s eyes, hidden underneath hollowed sockets, are a near-perfect copy of the Vessel’s own where they’re carved into their mask.

On second thought, Slinky actually isn’t entirely sure if it’s even a mask, or simply their face after all. It’s often difficult to tell, even on the more usual residents of the kingdom - their friend’s true nature is still a mystery the caterpillar is no closer to solving than the origin of the mad plague that still sweeps over the land.

“Do they have a name?” Mica asks, suddenly. Slinky jerks alert, thoughts crashing to a halt, and turns to look at the Vessel just in time to see them fall deathly still at the question.

It’s almost frightening, how they could be mistaken for a statue in their frozen stupor. It’s like time itself has stopped, even the air around their form slowing to a complete halt. For a moment, Prongs sits in silence, then turns their gaze towards Mica with an almost visible look of confusion in their eyes.

 _Vessels are not privy to names,_ they sign, slowly. A part of Slinky lights up, delighted at their friend’s gradual but still increasing usage of more complex signs, but the feeling is soon pushed aside by a sense of clouded dread laying heavy in their guts as they focus on a particular world Prongs had used.

Vessel.

A vessel for what, they wonder?

“But you have a name, don’t you?” Slinky murmurs up to Prongs, who watches them with unblinking eyes. “You have a name.”

It’d almost be funny just how _lost_ their friend suddenly looks, if the sight didn’t make the caterpillar’s insides clench with some tangle of muddled sorrow.

“We could give them one,” Bow offers, sensing the mood around the room making a sharp nosedive. Mica gasps, clapping her hands together as she sits up a little straighter.

“Oh, oh, great idea! Anyone have suggestions?” She pauses. “Prongs, what do you think? Are you okay with us brainstorming a little?”

Prongs watches the wasp silently, thinking. They cast a lingering glance towards the child, still holding onto their side, before they eventually raise their head again and give a slow, approving nod.

Mica grins. “ _Yes,_ awesome. Alright, thinking time.” She shuffles her position a little until she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, then holds a claw up to her chin with a pensive hum.

Bow chuckles a little, but the noise fades out soon after as they settle into contemplative silence as well.

Slinky raps their fingers against their shell, thinking. Bones? No, a bit too grim. Puzzle? Yeah, that they sure are, but they aren’t sure if the Vessel would appreciate that idea. Ghost? Well, that has a very nice ring to it, but something about the name still feels… _odd._ Slinky isn’t quite sure how to describe the feeling, but they elect not to offer that one.

The child’s personal shield, still held tight against their chest, glints from underneath Prongs’ hold.

Slinky’s eyes narrow into thoughtful slits, and they let out a small hum.

“How about Bottle?”

Bow blinks, looking somewhat bewildered. “Sorry?”

“How about we name ‘em Bottle?” Slinky repeats, watching the rest of the group looking at them with varying expressions of surprise and bafflement.

“Aw, I like that!” Mica pipes up, mandibles pulled into a grin. “It’s really cute - and it suits the kid, too! They’re really fond of that cap.” She pauses to let out another laugh as she reaches out a hand towards the child, watching them grab ahold of one of her claws.

“How’s that sound, Bottle? Hmm? Yes, that’s you! That’s your name!”

Slinky has to bite down on the inside of their cheek to keep themself from cackling out loud when Mica’s speech eventually dissolves into another bout of mushy cooing. Wyrm, that’ll make for some _excellent_ teasing material later on.

Eventually, after taking a moment to ensure they won’t start giggling mid-speech, Bow clears their throat quietly. “What are we going to do with them?” they ask, nodding towards the child, who still seems utterly absorbed in trying to pull Mica’s entire hand into their grip. Slinky’s expression falls into a small frown.

“Dunno. I mean– our general _thing_ ain’t exactly a perfect environment for takin’ care of a kid, much less a Vessel - whatever _that_ means.”

Mica breaks off from her one-sided conversation with Bottle to shoot the two other bugs a look Slinky had previously only expected to see on a particularly determined grub begging their parents for a frozen treat at a market.

“Guys, c’mon, can we keep them? _Please?”_ The wasp stifles another high-pitched laugh when Bottle pokes at her wrist, curious about the dark carapace that covers her limbs. “We’re already friends, see? I know Prongs at least would take really good care of them. Not that they seem particularly inclined to even let them go, but– y’know.”

Slinky turns to look at Bow just in time to see a great variety of expressions - ranging from muted fear to a tired sense of resignation - play across the bug’s face, before it eventually settles on a deep sigh.

“This is not going to be easy.” They pause, and the inkling of a small smile tugs at their mouth. “But, I suppose, they _do_ need a home. I can’t imagine spending too much time in a rotting ruin like this would do their health any good.”

Mica pumps a fist in the air, only barely restraining herself from giving a raucous holler of delight to avoid startling the child. She laughs again, louder this time, and even Bottle seems to have caught some of the wasp’s good mood as they kick their little legs atop their sibling’s lap.

 _“Yes!”_ Mica hisses out, grinning wide. “Welcome home, little Bottle. You’re on our team, now.”

Bottle sneezes again.

Bow eyes the child, worry flickering in their eyes. “We should really take a look at that. They might be sick.”

“We can do that when we get back to camp,” Mica replies, then blinks up at the Vessel. “Ready to go?”

Prongs waits for a beat before they respond. Then, slowly, they nod. They look around for a moment, assessing their surroundings, then place their sibling back into a secure hold before they slowly rise from their cross-legged lull. The rest of the group follows close behind, and soon they all leave the silent ruins of the apartment as a unit. 

The fact that Bottle’s wound is still seeping droplets of inky fluid onto their cloak seems to remain utterly oblivious to Prongs - either that, or they deliberately don’t pay any mind to the stains as they adjust their grip on their sibling.

Bow, eventually, manages to convince the Vessel to let them take a look at the child and see if they can patch the still-bleeding crack running down their face. They remain careful not to startle the little one, keeping their voice low and their movement steady - though their worries are soon rendered moot when Bottle, encouraged, reaches towards the bug with their bitty hands and attempts to grab a fistful of their fur, utterly mesmerized by the softness of the wool. Bow sputters when the child tugs a little harder than they’d anticipated, and Mica wheezes out a delighted giggle at the scene.

It suddenly occurs to Slinky, then, that none of them have ever cared for a child before.

They’re fairly certain none of them will mind overmuch, however. Prongs looks the most relaxed the caterpillar has ever seen them be as they carry their younger sibling, and though their mask remains as blank as it always has been, Slinky swears their expression almost feels fond.

Mica certainly has no issues with the idea, wiggling her claws above the child with a trilling laugh when Bottle swats a hand towards them, burbling out an odd little sound that brings to mind a mosscreep investigating a particularly tasty-looking flower. Even Bow’s mouth is pulled into a gentle smile as they watch the child, enamored.

 _This’ll be interesting,_ Slinky thinks to themself as they bite back a laugh, eyes slowly turning back towards the statue standing tall above the fountain in its endless vigil. _Very interesting, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this time the found family has acquired some Actual Totes Real Family huh
> 
> so! thats it for the new additions to the group, everyone's now gathered together! as the kids say, ahem. Gang's All Here
> 
> "but salty," you may ask, "why are there 5 chapters if you say the group is complete in 4 chapters?" well. heh. we haven't reached the emotional climax of the story yet :3
> 
> ON A SERIOUS NOTE yes there is still a chapter left!! it'll be a sort of,,, epilogue, of a kind. a closing chapter. a final goodbye to this particular fic. (but not to this group of characters, oh no! you'll be seeing a lot more of the gang after this story is finished, this was merely a collection of tales about how the group itself was formed :}c)
> 
> anyway, next chapter's gonna be,,, a bit rough. emotionally speaking, i mean. i cant say the details right now, but when it arrives, mind the content warnings and take care. love yall ok see u next week


	5. The Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No mind to think.
> 
> No will to break.
> 
> No voice to cry suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooh boy. here we go, lads, here's the grand finale.
> 
> this was actually the first chapter i finished writing, and did it all mostly fueled by One (1) idea for a paragraph, which then snowballed completely out of control because Of Course It Did lmao
> 
> but yeah, grand finale. the climax. the end. (for this specific fic, anyway.) im immensely proud of this chapter, and i gotta admit i got really emotional while writing it - it was pretty cathartic, too. prongs is a really important comfort oc of mine at this point :')
> 
> so, before we begin, there's gonna be a few content warnings in here. the most important ones are: depersonalization, very briefly mentioned (accidental) self-harm, and just in general grappling with trauma-induced issues of self-worth and identity. this got,,,, a little rough, towards the end. dont worry, there is no bad ending and nobody dies. what is hurt/comfort without the comfort, after all?

They find Prongs at the bedrock of the world, clinging onto a past that gave them life and broke them down in the same labored exhale.

* * *

It’s a simple question, really.

The group, exhausted from the day’s travels - curled around a small campfire they’d made to weather the night, out with only the top of the yawning cavern acting as a roof - had at some point wound up telling stories of their homes, weaving grand tales of wonder and terror, recalling the many memories and comforts of their birthplaces as they recounted their journeys within (or into, in Mica’s case) the kingdom.

Slinky had gone first, speaking of a secret village nestled between the border of lush greens and pitch-black caverns, describing with great joy and detail the many unique goods they traded with nearby settlements and the vibrant communities of bugs that occupied the village.

Something in their expression grows more somber and withdrawn towards the end of their tale. Prongs remembers wandering past abandoned ruins of villages, once described as bustling hubs of activity before the Infection ravaged the kingdom down to the bone. They’re fairly certain they understand.

Bow goes next, and clears their throat before they begin. Softly, they talk about an apartment, small, humble but cozy, hidden within the heart of the capital beneath the soothing patter of rain and surrounded by a deep blue glow.

They shared the apartment with someone, they mention, just a bit too quiet and a bit too fast. Prongs watches Slinky jab at the bug for the slip, gently teasing, all good-natured fun that sends Bow spluttering into their tea. The redness glowing across their face seems a touch brighter, too, stronger than the natural rusty pigment coating the tufts on the bug’s cheeks.

Mica takes a moment before she talks, face pulled into a thoughtful frown. Her memory seems awfully finicky, she tells them, as she spends a few minutes trying to recall the name of the kingdom she once called home. She remembers the color green, however, green wilds and feather-soft moss, and a town of rust and iron and the smell of metalworking. She describes a kingdom, vast and wondrous, far away from Hallownest yet just as grand in its size and beauty alike.

Then, finally, it is the Vessel’s turn.

It’s such a simple, easy question.

“And Prongs, what about you?” Slinky asks, slipping a bite of smoked vengefly meat underneath their mask as they lean atop their own body, coiled in loose curls. “Where are you from?”

It _should_ be an easy question.

They know where they were born. They remember, in intimate and excruciating detail, each and every crack and crevice of the near-bottomless cavern they crawled out of, so thick with the shattered bodies and masks of their fallen siblings that where the floor ended and the bodies began was impossible to tell.

They remember the climb - the long, painful, terrifying climb that left their hatchling-soft shell littered with cuts and gashes and scrapes with each time they tripped on a loose stone or snagged their arm against the pointed horn of a fellow Vessel’s discarded mask.

They remember the deathly, suffocating silence of the Ancient Basin, hidden so deep beneath the kingdom’s foundations that even the air itself felt like it hadn’t moved in aeons.

They remember the Birthplace. They remember their _home,_ if it could ever be called that.

And yet, why can they not answer?

Silence falls for a minute. Prongs shifts, lifting their hands in front of them.

 _Below,_ they sign, _deep below._

Something small flutters within their chest when Slinky’s face lights up at their usage of sign, proud and warm. They’ve been trying to practice signing more frequently, for when there is no other way of conveying their intent as accurately.

They hope it makes Slinky happy, too. They want to see them happy.

_Do not want._

The Vessel lowers their hands.

“Below, huh?” Slinky says, nodding along. “How far down d’you think? Deepnest?”

Prongs slowly shakes their head.

 _Deeper,_ they sign again. Someone gives a low, impressed whistle.

“Damn,” Mica says. Bow hums in agreement, idly chewing on a piece of dried fruit.

Prongs isn't sure how else they can describe the vast, writhing darkness of the Abyss. They don’t know how to explain Void, either.

A beat passes in silence.

An idea forms.

 _I can show you,_ they sign, slowly. 

Bow straightens their back, blinking. “Really?” they ask, and Prongs gives a nod.

Deep as it may go, the trip isn’t a path to the other side of the whole world. It’s perfectly doable with their little group, once regular resting stops and snacks are taken into account.

It’d be nice to see the Abyss one more time, anyhow. They don’t think of it as a home, not anymore, haven’t done so in centuries, but it’d be nice. Perhaps now, older and more mature, they can finally say a proper goodbye.

The others seem decently excited, too. 

Yes, they’ll show them where they were born. That’s what they shall do.

The rest of the group calls their agreements, some exclaiming with interest and others wondering what corner of the world could have spawned their stoic, patient guardian. Bottle doesn’t join in on the chatter, of course, but their eyes flit from person to person, curiosity piqued.

Discreetly, Prongs digs around the pockets inside their cloak, claws brushing past an old tram pass they had fished out from the Junk Pit during a trip across the Waterways.

It doesn’t take them all long to agree on a route, pack up their supplies, and set off.

Days of arduous travel later, once the tram hitches and shudders into a stop, Slinky is practically vibrating with excitement as they wiggle their way out of its doors.

“Finally,” they cackle, settling onto the dusty ground of the Basin with a muffled thud. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a tram ride that felt that long!” 

Prongs follows them outside, briefly pausing to pass their smaller sibling from their arms into the caterpillar’s hold.

They tap Slinky’s shoulder, waiting for them to watch, turning slightly to make sure the others can see their hands.

 _Careful,_ they sign, slowly and with meaning. _Follow me._

Their words are met with nods - some determined, some mildly nervous - and Prongs responds in kind, before they take the lead and begin their descent down into the Ancient Basin.

Already, the all-consuming quiet of the Basin hangs heavy in the air, weighing upon the travelers and dampening Slinky’s initial excitement into a more careful, muted curiosity. Prongs continues onward, slowly testing the strength of the rock beneath them before they drop further down.

Their footsteps echo across the desolate walls, the sound feeling like it’s simultaneously beat into the back of their skull with tremendous force and like the very rock itself swallows it whole.

It’s a familiar echo. Different, changed, old and new at once, yet it calls back a swath of memories buried so deep within Prongs’ mind it feels like the time between their first steps into the Basin and their careful trek back in the current date is only a day, at most.

The rest of the group follows behind them, casting nervous glances around their surroundings as they press on.

A lone shadow creeper trundles along the ground, slow and steady in its eternal march. Prongs sidesteps it carefully, motioning for the others to do the same behind them.

There’s a brief sound of rustling cloth and carapace, and Prongs hears Mica mutter something under her breath as she sees the creature, bewildered and mildly afraid.

“I didn’t even know that a place this quiet existed,” Bow whispers as they walk.

“No kiddin’,” Slinky replies with a full-body shudder, gently tightening their hold on Bottle while the latter clings to their shoulder. “You’d think this whole place was a corpse with how silent everything is. Gives me the damn creeps, actually.”

Prongs only half-listens, their attention drawn to the coal-black roots and blades of grass jutting from the ashy earth. The air is so still, so silent, now, that there is no wind to sway the stems.

It isn’t long, now.

They can already feel the Abyss calling, singing its droning hum from deep beneath the earth as it beckons them closer, invites them home.

Their shell thrums, and they quicken their pace, just a little.

One by one, the group descends further into the Basin, the air growing colder and more stagnant with each step forward. Slinky lands onto the ground right after Prongs, and wheezes out a cough when the impact kicks up heaps of dust.

“We—” they cough again, grimacing. “We’re getting close, right? It seems like we’re getting close.”

Prongs slowly tears their gaze away from a long corridor nearly choking from tendril-like vines, and their eyes land on the caterpillar’s face. Slowly, they nod.

They only catch a brief glimpse of Slinky’s vaguely uneasy look before they turn back again, and continue their march.

It’s almost completely silent, now, save for the rustling of dead leaves as the group advances through the vines within the long cavern. The Void grows louder, more frantic, almost giving Prongs the impression that it’s desperate to return them to its blissfully empty nothingness.

No, not yet. It isn’t their time.

They only need to show them, just a glimpse, a brief window into the pit that birthed them into a cursed, dying world.

The thought almost comforts the Vessel, before they push the feeling down and away. _Do not feel. Do not show weakness. It is not your place._

They emerge from the tunnel, slowly, one by one, and stand before an entrance that stretches to the very ceiling of the cavern. All is quiet, now, not even the breathing of their companions denting the thick blanket of silence that hangs within the room.

There’s a circular tablet set upon a platform of carved stone, nestled right next to the mouth of the cavern, new and unfamiliar in its existence. This, the Vessel does not remember from the flashes of memory of the end of their climb, crawling out of the Abyss with what little strength had remained in their limbs.

And there’s a door in the way.

Everything stops, for a beat. The Vessel is silent. Their companions shuffle on their feet, nervous and uncertain. The Void rears, achingly close yet so, _so_ far away, and its voice screams and thrashes from behind its artificial prison.

“Is this it?” someone asks, voice warbling with muted fear. The Vessel takes a moment to recognize the speaker as Mica, wings buzzing a low drone behind her back.

They inch forward, a step, then two, then another.

_So close._

The tablet atop the platform flickers, then lights up with a pale white glow. Slowly, painfully slowly, the Vessel turns their head, eyes trailing along the scripture etched into the surface.

_Higher beings, these words are for you alone._

_Our pure Vessel has ascended. Beyond lies only the refuse and regret of its creation._

_We shall enter that place no longer._

They stop, and read the words again.

And again.

And again.

_No._

They brush a hand against the tablet, watching its gossamer glow shimmer and swirl behind their trailing claws.

_No._

They raise their head again, tracing the four-pronged spear carved into the door with their eyes.

The Void screams again. The Vessel’s composure quivers.

_No. Do not feel._

They raise a hand, claws scraping against the stone as they lower their palm onto its surface.

_Do not think._

They push themself backwards, taking a step into the cavern that stretches behind them.

_Do not want._

They launch into a sprint, ignoring the startled shouts behind them.

They ram into the door with all their might, the sound of the impact nearly drowning underneath shrieks of fear and concern as their companions scramble backwards. A pale, glowing seal flashes before the door, revealing a spell of protection cast upon the stone to strengthen it.

“Prongs, what are ya doing—” asks Slinky, voice uncharacteristically frightened as they approach the Vessel with hesitant steps.

_Do not feel._

The Vessel pauses, backs away, adjusts their position, and charges again.

_Do not be a burden._

And again.

_Impure._

And again.

**_Impure._ **

The Vessel crashes upon the gate a fifth and final time, stumbling away and stopping into a hunch, watching as the seal fades away once more, like it always does.

The Void shrieks and howls, writhing against its bindings.

The Vessel distantly notes the pain ebbing beneath their carapace, far from urgent but persistent nonetheless.

“Prongs, buddy, stop that—” Slinky babbles from behind them, carefully inching closer. Their voice almost breaks as they speak, “What are ya even doing? What’s behind that door that you wanna see so badly?”

The Vessel cannot answer.

“Home?” Slinky guesses, voice dropping into a hushed murmur. “Is it home?”

The Vessel does not answer.

They can hear footsteps approaching, the rest of the group slowly shuffling closer.

A flash of guilt stabs them through the throat, guilt for making their companions worry, hot and uncomfortable against their shell.

The Vessel shoves the feeling down, down, _down,_ as far and deep as it can fit, away from their mind and away from their memory.

And yet, it persists, it clings on, as traitorously stubborn as its owner.

The Vessel fights to keep a hold over the cap keeping their emotions from spilling too wide, and already they can feel their grip slipping as the container cracks. Spiderweb fractures dance across the surface, spreading, splintering, and the horrible feeling of guilt swells along with it with renewed vigor.

It snags onto their memories, their wall of stifled wishes and desires, cuts like jagged shards of glass against soft palms and stains them with thick black tar.

They weren’t made to feel. Wyrm, they were made to _not_ feel, birthed in the deepest pit of the Abyss only to die and have their soul and shell be filled with Void instead for that very purpose, and here they go teetering on the edge of the waterfall as if they _deserve_ that release. They weren’t made to feel. They _shouldn’t_ feel.

They don’t know how to stop, either. Nobody taught them. It shouldn’t have been _necessary._

They’ve been hanging onto a thin thread of control for as long as they remember, with the same desperation of a drowning bug clinging onto the nearest cliff of dry land they can reach, and their hands are getting tired.

Then, someone asks, “Are you okay?” and this is it, the dam cracks, splinters, breaks, shatters like the most brittle of eggshells and flings the shrapnel into the wind.

The Vessel barely feels the impact as they collapse onto their knees, clouds of stagnant dust and ash billowing around them as their composure crumbles from its precariously balanced tower of glass.

The Vessel realizes, then, understands like the impact of a tram just how much they _want,_ circumstances of their birth and the nature of their very existence be damned.

They want to feel. They want to be _allowed_ to feel. They want to love - love like a parent teaching their children to walk, love like the rain that encourages seeds to sprout, love without limits and the ever-present threat of being discarded for fighting against their birth-inherited purpose.

They want to be able to show their friends the place they once called home, and they want the ability to feel _pride_ and _warmth_ as they show them their origin without guilt screaming at them to cease.

They want to be alive, _truly_ alive, they want a beating heart and lungs to gasp with and a mouth to smile, speak, laugh, and they want to _sing_ and to _scream_ and to _soothe_ with something more than just their cold, dead shell and Void-stained soul.

They’ve never, ever, not once in their existence, wanted to cry as much as they do now.

They _can’t._ They cannot cry. They cannot cry, cannot let their turmoil spill outside its leak-proof container, cannot scream out their anguish, cannot change their physiology to allow it, and with a start they realize just how _angry_ it makes them feel.

They _hate_ it. They hate it with the same burning, blistering fury that glows from orange eyes and spills in a wordless rage from sharp-toothed maws, they hate it like they hate their birth-cursed shell and the writhing ink that fills it like a cruel mockery of life.

The trembling of their body barely registers as they sit, crumpled into a pathetic heap, their shame and failure bared open for all to see.

A small, inky droplet of Void idly floats past their eyes.

Then another.

And another.

Slowly, distantly, like they’re making the observation from behind a pane of thick glass, the Vessel realizes it’s bleeding from their shell, their own claws piercing into their arms with enough force to crack their carapace.

It takes them another minute or two to notice the voices around them, muffled and distant, blurring together into a cacophony of concerned shouts and pleas.

A small, nearly weightless palm presses against their thigh. When the Vessel takes too long to turn their head and look, it pats their shell again, more insistent with its force.

The view of their little sibling, empty sockets boring deep into their own, clears into focus at last.

They’re shaking. Bottle’s arm trembles as they lean onto the Vessel’s leg, and though the expression on their masked face remains unchanged, the magnitude of their distress could not possibly be more obvious.

The motion of the Vessel’s head - achingly sluggish as it may be - seems to comfort them, though. Bottle jerks as if startled, pauses for a beat, then jumps closer as they drum their tiny hands against the Vessel’s carapace in a rapid staccato.

The Vessel watches them, still and silent, and scrapes together every remaining drop of their dwindling willpower to raise their head.

Bow kneels near them, eyes wide, glasses barely clinging to their face as their antennae lay folded flat against their head. Their hand rests enclosed around one of the Vessel’s wrists, halfway through the motion of gently tugging their claws away from their spilling flesh.

How funny. The Vessel didn’t even notice the grip upon their shell.

To Bow’s right, Mica crouches low to the ground and watches them, stone-faced and wings pinned behind her back, their occasional rigid flutter betraying her distress.

And Slinky— oh, dear little Slinky, sharp and steadfast Slinky— looks to be on the verge of a breakdown.

A beat passes in silence.

“Hi,” they say, voice barely above a whisper and trembling with barely-restrained tears.

Beside them, Bow swallows thickly, mouth pulled into a wobbling smile.

“Welcome back,” they breathe out, soft and warm. Their eyes look shiny, patches of fur around their cheeks clumped together with moisture.

“You— you really scared them, you know,” Mica adds, words tripping on her mandibles as she speaks. She clicks under her breath, curses softly, and clears her throat. “A-and me. And me too.”

The Vessel watches the group, gaze lingering on each speaker for a beat.

They can’t find it in themself to respond, to react, but the group’s words ignite something within the swirling Void trapped in their shell.

Their carapace itches, just a little.

Another tap against their leg draws their gaze downwards again, and the Vessel watches as Bottle levels them with a deep stare, palms planted squarely onto their carapace.

Then, slowly, their little sibling hoists themself up onto their thigh, clambering forwards with juvenile clumsiness until they’re pressed flush against the Vessel’s abdomen. They pause again, pointedly looking them in the eye, before they open their arms wide and make their best attempt at enveloping the Vessel’s entire torso into an embrace.

Slowly, one by one, warm hands press against their cold shell. More arms follow, wrapping around the Vessel’s limbs, torso, neck, hooking around the crook of their arm and nestling between the plating on their back. Soon, there is little space on them left that isn’t blanketed by soft fur, fabric, carapace scraping against carapace.

They realize, soon, that they’re trembling again.

“It— it’s alright,” Slinky hiccups, a watery laugh caught halfway within their throat. “It’s alright. You— you’re family, too. Doesn’t matter where ya came from, doesn’t matter who you were born to, you’re our family too and I— and I’ll be damned if I— if we let you break, when we’re supposed to be there for ya.”

Slinky sniffs, draws in a deep gulp of air, and lets loose a wet, burbling laugh against the Vessel’s abdomen as they squeeze tighter.

Family.

Something about the word feels a little funny.

The small, nagging itch beneath their shell soothes, shrinks, and slowly vanishes into nothingness.

_Family._

Prongs decides then, quietly, privately, that they rather like the sound of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> falls facefirst to the floor. there we GO thats it this is finished and i cannot believe what started out as a series of short requests for friends eventually flew completely out of control and became over 23 thousand words of emotional found family nonsense
> 
> actually i lied lmao i can absolutely believe it bc 1) ocs are Good 2) my friends' ocs are Very Good and 3) i'm an unstoppable adhd-fueled menace who loves my friends, loves their ocs, loves my Own ocs, and loves writing. wahoo
> 
> so. that's it, then - this story's over and done with, and the final chapter has been sent out into the world for all to enjoy. not gonna lie, im a little bit emotional about it too. not to mention that is is my all-time longest sustained writing project, and thus far the only multichapter fic with a clear and coherent end that i have managed to fully write out and post!!
> 
> so yea, celebrations aside, i care about this group of characters immensely and there's no way im done writing about them Completely. this fic may be over, but these characters' story ain't! see y'all around, ok? thank you all so much for reading, ily guys, and farewell for now :}

**Author's Note:**

> aight here we GO i've been working on this absolute monster of a story for several weeks without pause now and having a blast. all ocs, baybee
> 
> all the characters who appear here, apart from Prongs, belong to a bunch of my good friends! no specific updating schedule for now though, but hopefully it wont be too sporadic ndfhjnfh


End file.
